celebrating fridge magnets and sticky notes

by 13:32 0 comments
home isn't swollen eyes at 3am or a personalized ring tone that never plays

wiping off tears with your favourite t-shirt, staining it with the smell of pain

it isn't taking off your favourite pair of earrings or the new heels you're too nervous about

nor the promise of your best friend saying that he'd always be around

darling the back of your hand has tasted no galaxy nor has it had the touch of gold

and your hair braided around the back of your neck whisper about the heartbreaks you sold

the sweat trickling down the back of your spine screams that your tongue tastes a bit like death

darling you're tiptoeing when  you need to scream, you're running away from your own breath

home isn't the cell phone that has promised never to ring and it's the only one who doesn't break its promises,

it isn't in hiding your bruises nor in being ashamed of your own mess

home isn't the silence on the other end of the mirror, of the girl who does not smile anymore

the forgotten laughter, the destructive tendencies, or the eyes that seem more familiar, sore

the swollen cheeks that used to be puffed red, until they forgot how to breathe

the lost constellation that speaks of how it could never be free

or how the moon tells stories of how you stopped listening to them

darling the voice of your pain does not echo how much you miss them

home isn't happy on good days and gone on the rest

it's two doors down, the girl who's beautiful in her own mess

the boy trying to figure out how to tie his own shoelaces

and the lady who stares at the magazine, wishing she had one of those faces

the man who walks alone, because he's too scared to hold another hand

the woman who builds castles and palaces, only to tear them back to sand

home is the smell of dead flowers and letters that were never read

it's the crumbs of last night's dinner, and morning's leftover bread

it's the smell of your favourite coffee mug that you broke before going off to sleep

it's the windows that shattered and your photographs, lying in a forgotten heap

the memories you made on your roof having ice cream under the stars,

it's the tally marks you made under your bed, counting your own scars

it's the drawing book your mother threw away when you were a little kid and told you it got stolen

it's the treasure map you lost when you were six, when the little you was allergic to pollen

it's your favourite teddy bear, waffles that you never wanted to let go of

it's all the white candies you stole from the next door grocery shop

it's the taste of burnt brownies and cookies whose batter you finished before they could bake

it's ink marks on the walls, and the scones you thought you knew how to make

it's the scratches on your knees, from when you were learning how to bike

it's the broken picnic basket and preserved thorns from your first hike

it's the smell of freshly baked cake on your little sister's first birthday

it's coming back to a laid out dinner and a made up bed after a long monday

it's in the silence at the end of your tears and the handkerchief that never dries

it's in the warmth of bear hugs measurable only by size

it's in the umbrella you carry around, waiting for it to rain

it's the pole you crashed into, learning to parallel park in your lane

it's in the fridge magnets and sticky notes that remind you you're not alone

it's in dancing hopes in burning rooms that take you back to home. 


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