I use the word “home” delicately.
I’ve compared enough to know that a home isn’t just where your clothes and food are stored. It’s where your heart smiles the most. So much so that it escapes the lips, forming an infectious smile there as well.
People don’t smile in prisons.
And although I am grateful for having a struggled space that consists of a roof over my head, I am not happy.
Being crowded, hearing repetitious complaints, coughs, and sniffles from sunken souls.
So contagious that I can feel every ounce of passion for anything leave me. I no longer take care of myself because my space and energy tell me “what’s the point?”
I can feel heavy sadness press into my chest each day until my whole body aches. Until I’m reduced to tears, because emptying the negative weight from my spirit is the only thing I feel I have control over anymore.
A place where I’m more and more tempted to leave my first hole in the wall, and am consistently fuming when I’m not alone is not a home.
This is not a home.
It’s a shelter I’m grateful for, but a shelter with bad energy is rejected with every fiber of my being. It is not placed as a home in my heart.
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