toxicity isn’t the only word
that describes the roof we live under.
Oh, perhaps a ghost house?
But aren’t the walls still echoing
with the loud shouts we endured as children?
No—
apparently, that was just “normal.”
Or was it abuse
disguised as discipline,
as love,
as something we were never allowed to question?
A “home” we dream of—
but oh, home,
why do I still search for you
everywhere I go?
I was born homeless.
Homeless?
Yes—homeless,
but with a roof over my head.
Walls still echoing
the same loud noises,
shattering into pieces
I was told to pick up quietly.
Father—
haven’t you claimed yourself as mine?
Then why does your love feel like something
I have to earn,
again and again?
Mother—
can’t you see the silence eating me alive?
The invisible wounds,
the quiet breaking?
Won’t you save your daughter?
Why do you fight?
Don’t you call it love?
Haven’t you said that you loved me?
Then mother—
why do I feel homeless?
Father—
why do I search for your love
in every person I meet,
in every voice that sounds kinder than yours?
Isn’t home supposed to be our solace?
Then why do its walls echo like thunder,
loud enough to drown a child’s heart?
Where is the happiness
I see living
in other families’ lives?
“Elder daughter”—
why is she the one
who learns to cry in silence,
while carrying the weight of a world
no one sees on her back?
Oh, home—
what a tragedy you’ve become for some of us,
that we must bleed onto paper
just to survive you.
Oh, home,
when will I ever be able to reach you?
Or will you
ever reach me?
Or am I destined
to keep searching
for a place
that was supposed to be mine
from the very beginning?
—faye
Apr 25
Apr 25, 2026 at 6:37 AM UTC
toxicity isn’t the only word
that describes the roof we live under.
Oh, perhaps a ghost house?
But aren’t the walls still echoing
with the loud shouts we endured as children?
No—
apparently, that was just “normal.”
Or was it abuse
disguised as discipline,
as love,
as something we were never allowed to question?
A “home” we dream of—
but oh, home,
why do I still search for you
everywhere I go?
I was born homeless.
Homeless?
Yes—homeless,
but with a roof over my head.
Walls still echoing
the same loud noises,
shattering into pieces
I was told to pick up quietly.
Father—
haven’t you claimed yourself as mine?
Then why does your love feel like something
I have to earn,
again and again?
Mother—
can’t you see the silence eating me alive?
The invisible wounds,
the quiet breaking?
Won’t you save your daughter?
Why do you fight?
Don’t you call it love?
Haven’t you said that you loved me?
Then mother—
why do I feel homeless?
Father—
why do I search for your love
in every person I meet,
in every voice that sounds kinder than yours?
Isn’t home supposed to be our solace?
Then why do its walls echo like thunder,
loud enough to drown a child’s heart?
Where is the happiness
I see living
in other families’ lives?
“Elder daughter”—
why is she the one
who learns to cry in silence,
while carrying the weight of a world
no one sees on her back?
Oh, home—
what a tragedy you’ve become for some of us,
that we must bleed onto paper
just to survive you.
Oh, home,
when will I ever be able to reach you?
Or will you
ever reach me?
Or am I destined
to keep searching
for a place
that was supposed to be mine
from the very beginning?
—faye
