"What do you have that you don't have there?" He asks, quite confused.
"Stability. " I answer in an heartbeat and their confusion deepens.
"Go home, Wanda." She begs, and I smile.
The notion of home is subjective, and quite frankly, it's lost on me, because I don't know where home is supposed to be, somewhere I feel less broken, somewhere I smile more or just somewhere I plainly exist, because, my darling, I do not have a home anymore, I just want to be left alone in a place I'm quite stable, where I sleep and wake, I eat and drink, where my actions and inactions are my choice, where there's no instability and double insecurities.
Home is a place I can have my occasional breakdowns, psychotic breaks, panic attacks and mental breakdowns without being questioned, judged, misunderstood and neglected.
Home is a place I can be broken in peace.
Perhaps, it's not a place, but a person, either way, I'm homeless, hopefully, just for a while.
_______ when I smile like this, then I know I've made yet, another masterpiece, yet, another broken masterpiece.
_____ inscription in the dark.
YOU ARE READING
Something Mending -- VOL 1
PoetryOf Breaking hearts, young love, betrayal and pain. Of Mending hearts, familiar pain, unexpected hurt and aftermath. Of Healing hearts, underated heartache, pain and acceptance. Of Love, Love that is as deep sea. Pain, that knows no bounds. Strength...
