I’m not sure

 
I’m sitting in my bed
I want to go home
I’m sitting in bed with my dog
I want to go home
With my cat
I want to go home
With myself
I want to go home
I want to go home
The sentence plays over and over in my brain
I’ve never had a strong sense of home
It’s always been my down fall
I make people homes
Open their rib cages and climb in
Make the bed and put up draperies
my nic nacs have a place here
But they always leave
Therefore I’m left again
Wandering in my brain
Wondering when I’ll learn to make a home out of myself


“You can’t make homes out of human beings”
I always tell myself this
I always forget


As a consequence of my actions I’m a nomad,

I still find comfort in the way you smell

I’m not sure if it smells like home, a safety net but the way it encases me makes me believe I had to of made a home within you without letting myself see it.

Your leaving has to be the fucking epitome of “you don’t know what you have until it’s too late”