I sit here,
listening to the lecture.
I sit here,
wishing to go home.
But then I really think about
home.
Your home is not the same as mine.
My house is not my home.
At home, memories of pain exists.
At home, the weapons used against me lie on the counter,
waiting to strike again.
I think of home and I cry,
not because I want to go back,
but because I never want to go back.