I am Nobody's Home
I used to think that,
When you're somebody's comfort,
You also get a sense of relief.
As though you're a haven.
To be called someone's home.
Someone's place of vulnerability.
Where you shield them from storms.
You cover them dry and with ease.
But, I am nobody's home.
Do things move differently,
When no one lives in me?
Then, where do I belong?
I used to believe that being "home,"
I would also be composed.
That when you're someone's sanctuary,
You're also sheltered with belonging.
To be somebody's home.
Where it requires cozy furniture,
Or a cordial ambiance,
To be deemed an asylum.
But, it's relieving that I'm nobody's home.
As my pillars move with mere shakes.
The solace appears inconsistent.
And windows break from storms.
That's when you're somebody's "home."
Your walls are built in strength.
The light never loses its ignition.
And your table is always full.
Thank God, I'm nobody's home.
All I could do is break apart,
Overwhelmed by all the weight.
I'm not a home, I'm only a person.
