i have a home inside me—inside my soul.
it’s a little broken, a little tilted to the side, with tattered windows and shelves long devoured by termites.
but it’s my home, so i can’t hate it.
sometimes, people come in—with an invitation, without an invitation—they always come in one by one with curious eyes and silvered smiles.
some people leave as soon as they come in, perhaps they had no time, perhaps they didn’t like my house.
that’s fine,i think, some people wouldn’t like my home.
some people stay for a while, and i welcome them so.but they see the shattered windows and eaten shelves, and they leave as well. perhaps they thought less of my shattered windows and eaten shelves, perhaps they were disgusted with them.
that’s fine too, i think, some people wouldn’t like my home.
there are others as well, others who stay for years and years and years.these ones don’t mind my broken little house.sometiems, they paint up my walls and replace the broken boards on my floors—i welcome them just the same, and perhaps—perhaps my home grows attached to those ones.
but they leave too.not always, but not never.they leave as well.
that’s fine, i think, it hurts a lot, but some people wouldn’t like my home.
all the people who leave as soon as they come, all the people who stay for a while, all the people that stays for eons—they might leave.it’s a fact, and it’s sad, i suppose.
my home is a tattered little thing that houses the memories of all these people, and in my house, I am there.
in the end, the only one who can’t leave me is me,
because it’s my home
so i can’t hate it.