Where is my home?
A year later,
the answer
is still
unknown.

I skip over
the days,
always running away
from the end.

This house fits
like an old, hole-ridden glove,
uncomfortable but soft.

I need space,
but cannot stand
the emptiness.

But with him,
there is no silence.

There is sound
all around him,
and every touch
feels safe.

I want to leave
this house behind,
but I am scared.
I do not belong,
even tonight they want me to.

But I cannot breathe
in this little green house,
and I cannot grow.
This family is not really mine.

Who is?
He is.