The best way to find "home" is to take it with you. "Home" is not the quiet street you grew up on. "Home" is not the school that was three blocks away that your mom would walk you to in the mornings. "Home" was not the place where you broke your arm. "Home" is not the beautiful apartment you moved into with your girlfriend when you finally started learning who you are. It's not that simple. "Home" was never a place. "Home" is the feeling. The memories. To look around and know that you're safe, and that the people around you love you. "Home" was never the ****** job you enjoyed because it was close and they had free coffee and donuts if you were early enough. "Home" isn't the place where those nightmares originated. "Home" is quite often the place that you die, if you're lucky enough. "Home" is the feeling you get when the golden-orange sunbeams ignite all the floating dust particles as it leaks in through the windows, and you can smell the candles burning from years ago, from your first memory of seeing that happen. "Home" is the place where you stay up with her till two in the morning making cookies, when you both have to be up for eight in the morning. "Home" is the place where you dance like goofballs in the living room, or, maybe not like goofballs, maybe like two people who were long since destined for the gallows but found absolution and salvation in the others welcoming smile and embrace. "Home" is the place where you lay your head down at night, and the last thing you see is the same as the first thing you saw that morning, and the next thing you'll see when you open them again; her. "Home" is wherever you want it to be, with all of the people that you want there. "Home" comes from within, as well as without. The best way to find "home" is to take it with you wherever you go. Keep it in a locket, or in a picture you can pull out of your wallet or your purse, or keep as your phone background because it's the 21st century now and everyone has cell phones and that's just what we do. Whatever the case is, whatever it may be for you...just, **go home.

No, that’s not how it goes.
Start again.
Do you remember the tree on the lake?
It was a forest.
No, it was black, like tar. It tasted like broken glass.
I remember the incense on the drapes.
Yes. It clung to our clothes.
You cried.
No, I smiled.
You cried smiling.
Yes.
I hate it when this happens.
What happens?
You know?
No.
Um. Sometimes it feels like the world is too crowded with words. Like it's too dense to speak.
That--
Like there’s something in the air that pushes against my throat.
There was a black dog, just then.
What?
Outside. It’s gone now. Sorry. Start again.
Do you remember the tree on the lake?
There was a raven.
Yes.
It was black like tar.
It caught a worm once.
Ravens don’t eat worms.
Yeah. It just sat there, with the worm in its beak. The worm squirmed, wrapping itself round the beak, over and over.
Is that why you were crying?
It wouldn’t stop. It kept going, digging its flesh deeper into the edges.
What was your father doing?
Smiling.
Why?
He’d filed for a divorce earlier.
Right. I wasn’t there.
No, you weren’t.
Do you regret locking the doors?
Sometimes I can taste the rain before it comes. It’s a skill I’ve had for as long as I can remember.
I’m lost. So your father was smiling?
No, he was crying.
Sorry. I swear I just--nevermind. Start again.
There was a storm in these parts when we were young. The worst storm in a hundred years.
I don’t remember.
You slept through it. I held your hand all night.
Why?
Because I was alone.
You still are.
Yes.
I hate it when this happens.
What happens?
You know?
Yes.
Where have you been?
Everywhere but here.
And where will you go?
Nowhere.
Sometimes when I look at you, it’s like looking through static. It’s like I’m looking at an impression of a person.
I get that a lot.
It’s like all my memories of you have blurred together. Vague feelings rise out of the haze. Feelings I recognise, yet cannot describe. I cannot connect them with who you are, what we were, or where we’ve been. It’s--
Like exiting a dream.
Yes. Exactly.
You feel a gap in your soul. One that has always been.
Always been. You held my hand, once.
During the worst storm in a hundred years.
When was that?
Every night.

1017

To die—without the Dying
And live—without the Life
This is the hardest Miracle
Propounded to Belief.

i don't know what to do about this bright-eyed boy
with perfect teeth and banter,
i just know that he wants me to quiet the echoes of past lovers and
i'm so scared i'll only become another.

You keep going. You cut your losses and believe in your dreams and keep trying, even if all you take are small steps. You keep going.
Because trying is valid and trying is monumental and trying is okay because trying means effort and trying can be doing or can be nothing but trying is still another step, another day, another breath, another sentence, another goal, another intention
When the depression and hallucinations and hyper sensitivity and drone and anxiety and disassociation and vices and losses and hurts and exhaustion flood and you just, can't, anymore, you must
You keep going.