I'm trying to find my home in this world.
The place where I belong,
because this 11 by 16 room isn't
quite doing it for me.
And when I travel five and a half hours
back to the place where I grew up.
Still nothing.

But little did I know home was not just a place.
It is an event, a feeling
that can only be described with a smile on my face
as I finish Buzzfeed quizzes in the RA's office
on a Thursday night.
It is writing poetry in the early hours of the day
when my creativity is heightened and
I speak in my "poetry voice" loud enough
for my neighbor to come knocking.
It is that no-named familiar face who
always smiles at you every day at 8:37
when you cross paths,
because he knows
Monday mornings make me meditate ******,
and a smile can ease that pain.
Home is a hug from a friend
that needs no words to be exchanged,
just a tight squeeze and
an unspoken pinky promise to
never let go.
It is Taco Bell on a Friday night
until they lock the doors
as you loiter and nibble at
nachos and a small drink
split between four people.

Home is the only meal my mother
knows how to make well,
but still burns it.
It is acceptance when you
trust someone with your
deepest darkest secrets
and they still couldn't stop loving you.
It is a phone call from the person
you needed to talk to the most.

Most importantly home is
a feeling that everything is going to be alright
no matter how bad life seems to get.