Home

I should be living in a bomb shelter.

In a place where I can feel protected and comfortable.

But once I step inside, and lock the door, it becomes a shooting range.

Where all weapons are loaded, and all weapons are pointing at me.

I live in a dillusion.

Somewhere where up is down, and this is that.

And forgetting to check in causes a shouting match.

I live where nightmares are real.

And my nightmare consists of a sweet voice thundering down on me until I shrivel up into dust.

I shouldn't live in a 4x4 cell that feeds me stone cold meals of discouragement and judgement.

I should live in my one safe place.

But I don't.

I live in my home.