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.
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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