The place I was born in,
The people who raised me,
The words that they spoke,
The ways that it changed me.
The road that I drive down
To visit my family,
The small hope that fails me
As I pull in the driveway
A brittle house,
built with brittle bones
A house that never quite knew
How to be a home
The journal on my nightstand,
The books that I read
The studio I danced at,
The yellow pillows on my bed,
The headphones I wore
That drowned out the shouting
The songs that I heard
That stopped me from drowning
My little home
Built with all my little might
A home within my house
A home that would survive.
-Aimee
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