I’ve stayed in different cities, different towns. There have been many places I’ve lived and nowhere has felt like home.
I made a reprieve out of his arms and called it my home and that’s the closest I’ve ever felt to belonging.
The closet darkness is the mot familiar thing that hangs around and even that leaves me at times and I’m still not sure if I’m thankful for that or not. At least if it stayed I’d have a final constant.
But it doesn’t stay. Nothing ever sticks and I’ve never been a good wanderer. My skin is too soft, my bones too stiff.
I’m good at giving up, but not at letting go. I guess I’ll call this not letting go of a place to call my own. Of not letting go of belonging.
I’ll rinse my eyes and I guess I won’t give up. It’s in my nature, though, so I always wonder when it’ll show up on my bedroom floor. Eventually the only thing I’ll have left in my hands is the idea of home that I’ve given up, but never forgotten.
Something about that sounds lonely.
I’m not scared of lonely anymore.