the broken doorbell

that makes me know

that I am where I belong,

like how a dual shock controller

belongs with a playstation 3.


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.



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