I want to go home

I want to go home…

but nobody told me where the hell that is.

 

Is it a place?

A person?

A version of me that slipped through my fingers

like smoke I tried to hold too tight?

 

Because this—

this right here—

this doesn’t feel like home.

 

This feels like waiting rooms

and unanswered prayers,

like sitting in a body

that doesn’t fit right anymore.

 

I walk through days like a ghost with a heartbeat,

smiling just enough

to keep people from asking questions

I don’t have the strength to answer.

 

“Are you okay?”

Yeah.

Sure.

I’ve mastered the art of lying

with steady eyes and a cracking soul.

 

But inside—

inside I am screaming for something

I can’t name.

 

I want to go home.

 

I want the kind of quiet

that doesn’t feel lonely.

The kind of warmth

that doesn’t burn.

The kind of love

that doesn’t feel like I’m borrowing it

on borrowed time.

 

Because right now…

everything feels temporary.

 

Like I’m living in a life

that was meant for someone else,

wearing their skin,

speaking their lines,

waiting for the moment

someone realizes I don’t belong here.

 

And maybe that’s it.

 

Maybe home

isn’t a place on a map

but a feeling in your chest

that says,

“You’re allowed to exist here.”

 

And I—

God, I miss that feeling.

 

I miss waking up

without this weight sitting on my ribs

like it pays rent.

I miss breathing

without it feeling like work.

 

I miss me.

 

Or maybe…

I miss the me I never got to be.

 

The one who felt safe.

The one who didn’t have to fight

just to get through a single damn day.

The one who knew where home was

without having to ask.

 

Because right now?

 

Home feels like a memory

I never actually lived.

 

And I am so tired

of pretending

this emptiness

isn’t swallowing me whole.

 

I want to go home.

 

Not the house with walls—

not the place people expect me to return to—

but the place my heart keeps reaching for

like it’s just out of sight,

just out of reach,

just—

 

gone.

 

So if you see me

staring off into nothing,

understand this:

 

I’m not lost.

 

I’m searching.

 

For a place,

a feeling,

a version of myself

that finally whispers back—

 

“You made it.”

 

“You’re safe.”

 

“You’re home.”