Home

Some say home is where the heart is,

but I say that is cliche.

For hearts do not belong in homes,

because my home did not allow hearts.

A heart at home is dangerous.

It is a fragile toy

waiting to be broken,

to be crushed beneath the feet

of those who are supposed to

house my heart.

A heart does not belong in a home

where walking upon eggshells

is a delicate dance.

A dance fine tuned,

from years of practice,

of pacing on delicate feet.

Where waiting

for that shoe to drop,

and hearing the crunch

of shattered joy,

from beneath thunderous feet

too heavy with hate to feel remorse,

is the expectation.

Instead I keep my heart locked up

within the walls

of a fragile little box,

taped up tight

with shaking fingers.

Waiting patiently to find

a home that is

safe.