Not really Home

I've moved twelve times.
I'm thirteen.
And no I have not moved every year,
Sometimes it was shorter, or longer.
And now this home we've lived at for three years.
That's the longest I've ever lived somewhere.
Of course this is the one my parents bought.
The one in the middle of no where.
When people ask where I live,
I say Nowhere.
Because it's true.
Too quiet, 
Nothing ever happens, and I can't walk to anything.
People peg me as a Vermonter,
But I was born in California,
And my heart's still there.
Wait for me,
I'll be there in five or six years I swear.
This one's too small,
Too lonely.
And do I need to tell you how creepy a forest can be at night?
I've never kept a friend for more than four years,
But I've been reached out to,
By an old friend,
Who I thought didn't care.
But she does.
So maybe I don't mind this home anymore.
But I'll never walk hand in hand with someone, home from school.
Or walk to the local Starbucks.
Never hear the sound of sirens at night,
Or the neighbors yelling.
Or at least not until I'm eighteen.
Then, whoosh.
I'm outta here baby!
And maybe I'll miss the quiet from my city appartment.
But probably not.