The floral aroma, as I unlock the door after a stressful day at school, turns my frown upside down.
Being greeted by a hardworking mother who still manages to throw something together even though we’re under.

I complete my meal and walk into a dark room.
Four tan walls that continue to get darker day by day.
Some nights bullets are the only sound the dark room can hear.
While on other nights, my tears become an ocean to a room that was once a desert.
Claustrophobic, trapped in my head, filled with rage, a heart that breaks, filled with pain.

Home, the place I run to for comfort, holds all my discomfort.
The dark room, home to my depression, is still my escape from the compression of these Flatbush streets.
Filled with a mix of cultures and the sounds of dollar vans.

Home, a place I may never truly enjoy, but for now I rejoice at the thought of having one. 
-Aliyah Fatima

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