12.19.17

I have always been attaching the word "home" to places without any permanence, constantly affixing myself to any location I possibly could. 

as a little girl I threw temper tantrums while leaving hotels simply because I loved that specific place so much, I fell in love over the course of a week and I didn't want to go. 

at the age of sixteen "home" to me was being wrapped up in my bed after school in the arms of a girl with glittery gem eyes and mermaid waves. This was my lesson in associating "home" with a person because I was homeless after two months and I swore I'd never again feel at home with another beating heart.

now at nineteen "home" for most of the year is a single shoebox room shared with another person, a room with one side belonging to me, and friends living just down the hall, completely in my reach; a little community of strangers placed together by chance and chance alone. This is my home, few and far between. 

the physical house in which I grew up is unfamiliar to me now; I come home for short breaks to find items misplaced, belongings ruined, family members damaged. I never unpack each time because I remind myself I'm only here for a little while and just like that, my house is another place to live out of my suitcase, another place I refuse to sew my heart onto. 

My house is no longer my home and most of the time, I'm not exactly sure what is.