Not my sanctuary, it doesn’t mean comfort which protects and shields. Not a barrier to harm, this house isn’t shelter from what skirts me. We think home is a building, brick on solid brick. But this structure is porous, and the walls are no friends.
Barely a touchdown, my bed is a spot to rest my head lightly, one eye ajar, and one ear alert. I don’t always hear soft sounds of warmth and of kindness. No certainty holds off harsh words or rough hands. Judgements can rage unbidden. Jagging, stabbing notions to tear from the inside, and pull apart. No promise of safety to sink in and relish. Not private, but ever open to invasion. A hulking presence growls in these living spaces.
No offer that here I am free, no guarantee. Seldom a place I know I have control. Absent of friends with a watching eye, no one is knocking to check, for they fear and hold off too. It doesn’t hold my laughter, and isn’t my retreat, allowing me to trust and breathe freely. Love may live here, but it can be sent scurrying. Other beasts too, rear their heads. Gentleness ducks and hides. Soft chatter, warm vibes, they cannot be nestled in for the atmosphere shatters, it sits on a knife edge, fun turns on a whim or a word or a gesture to ominous black ice.
Not secure, not a blanket, not cover, not my castle, and not my keep. Not where the heart is, not sweet. My house is a far cry from home.