Home is the bruise you carry in your heart,
The one small place you dare to be your own;
You light its dark with souls who etched their part,
The only safe haven where your secrets are known.

You build it out of vows that would not hold,
Of chairs left empty, frames without a face;
You mortar every memory against the cold,
And call that ache your last and only place.

You drag it with you every time you move,
Those same four corners, carried place to place;
You lay out all the ghosts you can’t remove,
The ones no new address can ever erase.

At times it feels a refuge from the rain,
Four phantom walls that no one else can trace;
At times it is a ledger of your pain
Where every hurt unlocks another space.

And if they ask you where you’re truly from,
You touch your chest, as if to hide the scar;
For home is where your wandering is finally done,
The place you crawl back to when you’ve strayed too far.