Home has been so many things. I've found home in a place, a person, an action, and within myself. There are moments, however, in which I have no home. Wrinkles of time during which I have no sense of belonging. These moments can last for minutes or weeks.
One day, I'm going to find home and it won't be a spotless kitchen full of comforting, lying aromas. It won't be brief moments of understanding between people so different they don't even know how to fight with each other. Home won't be a place which I must leave on the spur of the moment. It won't be the hell of the eternal temporary. It won't be a place where I find pure love only to have it ripped from me.
Once, I thought I'd found my home in the arms of a tender, loving woman. I thought she cherished me and loved me without reservation. I thought that she could love me despite my faults. Somewhere along the line, I'd been told that was the definition of home. A place, a person who loves even your faults and offers a safe haven from the universe. Maybe I just made it up.
Maybe home doesn't exist. Because even when I thought I'd found it within myself, it crumbled away. Eaten by the acid of buried memories. Memories of being told that six year olds are smarter than you when you're ten years old. Hearing almost daily the venom against one parent, even as your presence is totally ignored. Then to hear the same thing about the other. Of course, you're only twelve so you couldn't possibly understand.
No matter how strong.
Never mind home.
No matter how fierce.
No matter how loyal.
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