Going home isn’t all
meatloaf, potatoes, and gravy;
it isn’t all sweet kisses
of nature in all her many forms
in her ageless beauty
Going home means facing ghosts
of my past, my present, and my future;
always a stranger in my own family.
going home means remembering
how my father always made me feel
like nothing more than a burden
Going home means remembering all the things he said about me
that weren’t true, and
all the things that he unfairly assumed
because he didn’t know a shred
of the person i truly was
and thought he could tell me who i was supposed to be.
Going home means facing
relatives who will tell me that my
childhood boyfriend was a good boy
because they don’t know
he tried to rape me, they’ll just
scold me when i hiss my disagreement.
Going home means wanting
to somehow fit into the niche but never
quite figuring it out;
hungry to know what is is that makes them human
rather than the monsters they become in my mind
when my anxiety and depression take hold.
Going home means facing all my failures
poured onto my shoulders by my father
like a waterfall
he won’t ever let me grow my roots
always so quick to try to chop me down
like a cherry tree.
I am wild, I am fierce, I am strong
full of dreams, magic, hope, and a fire all my own
I refuse to be the same as everyone else
I will not deny who I am.
but going home reminds me
that I’ll never be loved the way I long for.
always I will be the outcast and the misfit
they’ll forever whisper
behind their hands and label me The Outsider
yet unlike my childhood
It will no longer hurt me.
Written by Linda Crate.
You can find Linda tweeting at @thysilverdoe.
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