I want to go home.
Not the artificial one in my head,
Or the temporary, fleeting one
In the comfort of your arms.
I want home
What home is supposed to be.
I want somewhere, or someone, or something
That I can go to
And feel okay
No matter how not-okay I am.
I want something, someone, somewhere
That is always there, always available, always certain.
Not a treatment, a quick fix, a medication
For a fragmented heart
And a shuddering soul.
A home.
I want a home.
Is home too much to ask for?