𝓗𝓸đ“ļ𝓮

Home is the most disputed territory in any language.  
For some, it’s four walls and a deed.  
A zip code. A mortgage.  
For others, it’s a person whose arms  
were the only architecture that didn’t collapse.  

Men are told home is what they provide.  
Women are told home is what they become.  
No one asks the child who learned to pack  
a suitcase before they learned to spell safe.  

For the displaced, home is a tense, not a place.  
It’s where I was or where I might be.  
Never where I am.  
For the betrayed, home is a crime scene  
with the furniture still in it.  

So don’t ask me where I’m from.  
Ask me what I flinch at.  
Ask me what smell makes my jaw unclench.  
Ask me whose absence feels like eviction.  

Because home isn’t a building.  
It’s the place where your nervous system  
stops negotiating with the air.  
And some of us are still homeless  
in rooms full of people  
who own our last name.  

-𝕃ℝ 🖤

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