going home isn’t always
returning to a place.
sometimes
it is returning to yourself.

i crave surface level people,
and surface level conversations.
for once,
i'm so sick and tired of complexity.

on a daily basis
my brain reminds me,
"you'll never fit in".
sometimes i believe it.
but once in a while i realize,
i'm not a puzzle piece.
i will never be.
i wasn't born to fit in this giant puzzle.
perhaps we could all just coexist.

regular routines remain,
trapped in a tenacious loop.
i despise this daunting shovel.
a begrimed bottom i can’t seem to reach.
pain pressures me into prayers,
bystanders beg for me to stop.
when can i be done digging?

august;
your trees grew through the depths of my soul.
your green leaves filled me with hope of new beginnings.
your bodies of water flowed through my veins.
your paths led me to new friends and long conversations.

january;
your abundance is barren.
your trees look foreign and eerie.
your leaves are stripped of color.
your bodies of water are concealed by your icy mask.
your paths are winding with no direction.
ghosts with unfamiliar faces haunt me.

he has redefined love for me
that's why when i think of love
i can only think of him
and everyone else seems foreign