I was born here,
But is this my home?

If it is—if it must be—
Then why doesn’t it feel like so?

When I travel,
I don’t feel like an outsider
As much as I do in my own hometown.

Yet when the flight lands back here,
I feel as though my heart is a jewel
Being placed back into its safe box
Like this land is two open palms
That await my arrival
And spread to embrace me
Into eternal safety.

I must accept
That I am forever torn
Between being from but not of,
Being part here and part elsewhere.

I prefer detaching myself from where I am
Erasing the sharp edges of time and space
By concentrating on a screen or a book
And not looking at the clock
To take myself off this place and find my soul elsewhere

how can I love this city
when I barely love myself?

how can I feel home in this city
when I don’t feel home in my own skin?

this house is huge
filled with empty space

i can feel the rhythm of my heart
i can almost hear the echo of my breath

mom and dad
are out of town

my mind can’t stop wondering
if this is how dead our house would be

when they’re gone
on a one way ticket

to
the other side

i can’t bear the thought
my throat is clogged with a lump of tears

what is life
without mom sitting in the living room?

what is life
without dad’s loud laughter in the afternoon?

the house is so silent
so sad

parents are on the other side of the globe
my sister’s singing in her room

i’m all alone
it’s not even worth turning on the light

i wish i could say i have the sun of my soul
shining through the tunnel of this phase

but i can’t
because i don’t

just like this house
i’m so silent
i’m so sad

1265 days later.
Sometimes the pain of losing a loved one
Makes you feel closer to them

And sometimes it makes you feel
Lifetimes apart

Sometimes it flows through you and turns into art
Sometimes it freezes your blood

true missing doesn’t need time to be felt.

you feel it the moment the oxygen you breathe
is different from your beloved’s;
when the air doesn’t carry their scent;
when the room doesn’t sing to their presence.

a true reader
an avid admirer of words
would never claim a book to themselves
if it were the last one on the shelf
unless they knew they would appreciate it
just as much — if not more — as the other potential reader

it requires both boldness and gentleness
to buy the last copy of a book in a bookstore

some days
i enjoy solitude
amongst a room full of people

and other days
i need to be in a deafeningly soundless vacuum
to feel at home in my own being

either way
solitude is the oxygen i breathe

 

it was fleeting encounters with love
that softened my nails and
allowed my skin to heal
and fade away those
scars of my darkest
nights