Home,
the broken doorbell
that makes me know
that I am where I belong,
like how a dual shock controller
belongs with a playstation 3.

Home,
a gateway leading
to sanctuary,
where the shelter covers me from
judgments and detestation
of how I look or what I say.
The feeling will keep me safe
from others,
the feeling will lighten and mollify
me when I am morose,
the feeling will bring peace
to me when I am pugnacious,
and the feeling will prohibit
ominous statements like,
“you better watch it,” or “you’ll regret that,” from hassling me.

The smell of a baked, warm baguette,
the sound of disruptive snores,
the sight of rain drops exploding
like a grenade in the battlefield,
the taste of strong French brie
melting on my tongue,
the touch of rugged red, green, and tan wool rugs with
beautiful flowers growing in all directions,
and even the sight of cockroaches
scurrying across my old apartment’s floor.

Sometimes I call my
house my home, which is an illusion
I fall for because all these little things
that compose my home are in my house
and most of all my family who comforts me and
engulf me with love, with compassion, with
the feeling.