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» which way is home?

-- north.

north smells of brownies made in the toaster oven from a box. i'm the only one who ever makes real ones. it feels like the snow they made in fourth grade, turning ice cubes into shavings of what it was. we were fourth graders, but we weren't fooled. it's the way my toes pressed into the ground when mom calls my name, the already-scarred feet turning red and white. it's the way i just ignore the yells. shake my head and say "i won't do it again." it's the breath of releves on pointe, the pain of falling, the fear that comes with rising again.

-- south.

south is two pm on a saturday and sitting on the roof, the sarcasm that infused their voice when they said the nice view of the bevmo. it's the cold that reverberates through you with the first jump in the pool, the shitty ice cream you get at cvs, the breath you take after running across the school with a heavy backpack and the laughter that keeps you from getting a full one. it's fluttering hearts and twisted hairties and odd relief around them. it's inside jokes, it's full hugs, it's the freedom that comes with being young.

-- east.

east tastes of tea perfectly sweetened. it's the fear that hitches your throat when the sensitive-subjects chat is bolded in white. it's the satisfaction that comes with a new chapter, the laughter that comes through on the other side of the screen. a smile, a typing keyboard, a poem unintentionally about them. it's bonding over trauma and ignoring the parents who say we're not good enough. east is too-long tumblr chains, new family, the active server. i may not be cold enough for north, but i'm enough for the click-clacking of my keyboard and a warm feeling, and it's enough for me.

-- west.

west is too-hot summers and too-cold beaches. it's it not being right -- everything's a little too warm, music's a bit too loud, room's a bit too bright. it's pushpins on the bulletin board, holding too-bright memories to the wall. it's the shaking when wren started a fight with dark over me and i couldn't handle it anymore, it's the stupid way mom thinks that my mental health is just stress, it's the storm that is my endless feelings ( calm at first glance, terror inside ). it's overly relating to hate myself by dodie. west is tears on a pillow, oddly comforting, i've been here so many times before.

-- which way is home?
i've long forgotten which way.