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.


Voices of Hope wants you to know that you do not have to do this alone. Click here to 'find help' - it's not weak to speak!

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