My home.

The house that built me grew mold on its sheetrock years before I was born. A 3-bedroom, one bath house. A kitchen, a living room, a garage , a couple hallways and several corners. Filled with 6 people, 2 dogs, a cat and the occasional runaway cousin. My childhood house was nothing more than that - a house, nothing that felt like home. Little me did not originally know the welcome mat was not welcoming her , and her ideas, her thoughts, her tears, her body. Little me soon realized going home after school was not a sentence she should be saying. That her home was like being in a hurricane but never getting to experience the eye. My house was a tidal wave that helped me learn how to live as I drown. Little me found home in her ink and wet paper as she cried in her closet. Home is the words of my heart that raised me. I believe in love for others and balances of peace. That happiness comes in waves, but sadness is what brings you back to the shore. This is recovery for little me.