Two Homes, No Sanctuary

Two doors, both locked, neither mine.
Two names, one I gave up.
Two voices, both demanding I choose.
A home is a shelter. A home is a question.

They say home is where you are safe,
but I have learned to measure home
by the weight of footsteps in the hall.

I imagine my father’s house is all sharp edges,
a table set with silence,
a living room where love is measured
in slammed doors and held tongues.

But I wouldn’t know.
His house is just an address,
a place I picture through secondhand stories,
through the gaps he left behind.

My mother’s house is smaller, softer—
she leaves the light on when I’m late,
fills my plate when I haven’t asked,
knows the words I can’t say.

But she can’t hear the ache,
the empty space where my father’s love should be,
the relationship I thought would be,
the one I’ve carried alone for too long.

So, two towns, both small, both watching.
One says, be grateful,
the other says, why are you like this?
Neither asks if I have somewhere to go.

I sleep in rooms lined with landmines,
step where it’s safe,
don’t speak too loud,
don’t make him look at you too long.

But some nights,
I find home in borrowed sweatshirts,
in quiet spaces made for someone else,
in people who don’t share my blood
but let me stay anyway.