I'm going "home" for Thanksgiving break.
But I honestly don't know
where the hell that is.
Home is not the small town
in East Jesus Nowhere
where I went to school,
or the quaint little neighborhood
where I fell off my bike
and never got back on.
It's not the white house with green shutters
that my parents bought when I was two,
where I have technally lived for the past sixteen years.
Yes, I grew up there,
but it's not home.
Not anymore.
I escaped that place three months ago
and found a new place to call "home."
But I suppose it's really hard to feel at home
in a place where you have to leave your flip-flops on to shower.
At this point,
I'm just trying to figure out what counts as "home"
and where I can find it.
I don't know if it's a place
or a person
or a feeling,
but whatever it is,
I crave it like a starving man craves food.

I guess you don't have to be poor
to be homeless.