These places feel strange.
They smell
Wrong.
I dare not taste them.
I want my home back:
The familiar smell
Arms which feel like comfort
A face which looks at mine and sees me
Not my skin or my hair or my eyes
But me:
My soul.
I want to come home.
When can I come home?
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 1:14 AM UTC
These places feel strange.
They smell
Wrong.
I dare not taste them.
I want my home back:
The familiar smell
Arms which feel like comfort
A face which looks at mine and sees me
Not my skin or my hair or my eyes
But me:
My soul.
I want to come home.
When can I come home?
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