You live in a house, but something feels wrong,
You’ve carried this ache for far too long!
The walls stand firm, the doors are wide,
Yet where is the warmth you cannot find?
What if the voices filled the air,
But no one noticed the weight you bear?
What if the people you needed most
Were present in body, but distant as ghosts?
Was someone missing when you needed them near?
Did you hide your longing, disguise your fear?
Did you learn that asking was asking too much,
That love was a language untouched by touch?
The Sun sought warmth, a father’s light,
Saturn drew curtains across the night.
One asked, “Am I seen? Do I matter here?”
The other whispered, “Be strong. Don’t fear.”
And so you grew, but a question remained:
Why did belonging feel somehow constrained?
Why did the doorway to childhood seem
Like the entrance to someone else’s dream?
But wait—must the past define every room?
Must yesterday’s absence determine your bloom?
Can you build a shelter within your own chest,
Where you need not perform to deserve some rest?
Perhaps the deepest ache isn’t being alone,
But feeling like a stranger inside your own home.
Perhaps the question that follows you through
Is not “Who abandoned me?” but “Where do I belong, too?”
Enough of pretending! Enough of the fight!
Enough of rehearsing old wounds every night!
You cannot rewrite who was absent back then,
But you can stop waiting for them to return again’.
Tell me, when childhood fades out of sight’,
Did home feel like shelter—or a question each night?
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