Home is where the heart is

But I don’t have a heart

And soon enough,

I won’t have a soul

Where I live is my home

Yes, with my family,

But also with my friends

My…no, that’s really it

With my family

I feel connected

Yet uncomfortable

It’s too little, too much

My mother

Wants to spend time with me

My step-father

Knows how I am, or, that he is the same as me

My brith father

Has stopped texting me, ever since my mother told him that she wasn’t pressing charges on his child care fines

My sister

Annoying, selfish, theif

Sweet, crybaby, lover

My brothers

One who thinks he’s better at me and will always be

And one who is a toddler, sweet, horrible, and crude

I feel—I’m not their family

I’m only half their family

I’m not even _them_

Perhaps that’s why I’m different with my friends

We talk about life

Death

Sex

Shootings

Things adults would usually chat about

We don’t really have social media—none of us

That’s why I love them

They understand me

I don’t need to put a mask on

Or…maybe I do

I act like I’m high with them

One of my friends say I need to quit

Doing drugs—

I’ve never had drugs in my life

I laugh when someone cries

Another friend says I need

A therapist—

A therapist wouldn’t help

I talk about sex too much

Honey Bear asks if I want to

Talk some—

No thank you, I’m mentally okay

So…do I have a home?

Physically, yes

Emotionally….?

I haven’t figured it out yet.