When someone mentions home to me, I don’t automatically think of my house. My house isn’t my home, just a place when I can lay my head and rest, the wave of calm and sleep washing over me as the moon illuminates my dark lit room. I would ask people what does the word home mean to them, same answers. Their house, partner, parents, etcetera but none of their answers made me feel satisfied upon hearing.

I couldn’t relate to them but kept my mouth shut, nodding my head with their words, hoping to understand what home really means. Home is supposed to be a place where you can be yourself and feel at your utmost vulnerability, but my time hasn’t come yet. I still find myself looking for the answer to the question: what does home mean to me?

I don’t want my answer to not be genuine and lie through my crooked teeth as I open my mouth to answer the question in my own words. I don’t like to be vulnerable, thinking I will be seen as crazy or dramatic but that’s what my home feels like. I hide in my shell, praying to be let out sooner than later. I see what home should look like from my peers and other family members, yet I still don’t feel it, the chill of dread crawling up my spine, heavily breathing down my neck as soon as my foot enters the doorway.

I would say perhaps my room is my home, but people invade and disrupt my peace, the calm peachy air turning sour like a lemon boiling in the Arizona sun in the middle of June. I could say my friends are my home, but what happens when they leave? I still feel the same even if they leave for good; it doesn’t affect me as hard as I thought it would. People come and go, but the bitter feeling and the burning question of “what if they stayed?” lingers in my throat.

When I try to think of home, I always have a “what if?” question every time. What if my mom makes us move cities? What if all my friends leave me? What if the passion of music dies, resulting in the world being quiet. I still fail to see what home is to me and my confused soul. I walk along the ash gray sidewalk, leaves surrounding me and the smell of soon to be autumn fills my nose, my other senses taking in the heavy weighted air. My heart weighs heavy as well, each breath gets slower than the last.

I need to go home, but I don’t feel at danger. I look up at the ocean blue sky. The cotton clouds flow sweetly as tears fill my black eyes. Have I found my home, or has it found me? No matter where I go, I still feel as if I have a missing piece in my heart, nothing filling in that empty space. Where is my home?