Unheard Cries

A House, Not a Home

This house feels like a cage,
walls pressing in, cold and silent,
rooms filled with voices that bruise
instead of soothe,
where love is a foreign language
I've never been taught to speak.

I crave the warmth of my parent's arms,
a touch that says, "I'm here, I see you,"
but instead, their words cut like knives,
a reminder of all I am not,
of every way, I've fallen short.

I want to tell them of my quiet battles,
of the nights I lie awake, aching,
but I know their ears are closed,
their hearts armored in expectations
I can never seem to meet.

And I dream of siblings who would know me,
the laughter we'd share, the playful fights,
the feeling that, no matter what,
someone would stand by my side
when the world becomes too heavy to bear.

Yet here, I am alone, a shadow, a ghost,
walking these halls with silent pleas,
wishing for a bond that's solid, unbreakable,
for a family that feels like home.

When I am far, I miss it all,
the comfort of routine, the familiarity
but every time I return,
the weight settles back on my chest,
reminding me why I left, why I dreamed of freedom.

And in the quiet, I wonder if I'm to blame,
if I somehow deserve this loneliness,
this aching absence of love,
as if my own heart is at fault
for wanting what it cannot find here.

I long for a home, not just a house,
for arms that hold instead of wound,
for voices that lift instead of crush.
But maybe this is my lesson, my burden,
to find strength in the empty spaces
and survive in a place where love feels like a distant dream.