Where is home anyway when I’m not snuggled in your arms

I knew a boy who looked hauntingly cracked under his porcelain smile. It was almost as if he breathed sadness, like he drank depression from his cup of tea every morning and ate his heart out for dinner. He was translucent, his body a dispersed cloud of smoke trapped inside a slim outline, and when he spoke my heart caught in my throat. His lips the color of death, and his words dripped with hidden malice. Oh how I fluttered when he held my hand.

I knew this boy who used to trace maps on my palms, he told me he was scared that I would not be able to find my way home after spending way too many nights molded into his arms. He became home a hundred days ago when he left black roses and a white piece of paper at my front door-he knew that. He knew but he insisted that a broken roof cannot shelter a heart like mine and he was right. It stormed one night some time after that and I drowned inside his heart.

He told me he grew up in a place where mom and dad slept a few rooms apart, where conversations were always either yelling or mute disagreements, and instead of story books he read his mother’s diary for lullaby. He covered his face with my palms this one night and asked me if I knew that we would end up tearing him apart and I said no. I didn’t think that I was digging into his old wounds but he told me he was hurting. He told me he kept waking up expecting my side of the bed to be cold, and then he was 8 again when mom ran away from home in the middle of the night. He looked out the window imagining me sprinting into the dark clad in my night gown.

but I was not his mother, and I couldn’t breathe knowing that he was covered in bruises from one of his wild club fights. He threw fists because he was afraid and I didn’t know how to hug him after a long night so we slept facing away from each other. On bad days I would not look into his eyes even though I knew he was searching for mine. Conversations turned into silence. Silence turned into yelling and then he was 8 again and dad was crying because he knocked on the door of an empty room on a Saturday morning.

He told me were becoming tragedies and he has had a lifetime of them.

I packed my stuffs while he was sitting on the edge of the bed, still and lifeless, my chest burning and sizzling with helpless angst. Where do I go, I asked, he held my wrist softly and traced a map on my right palm. Home, he said. I broke down and cried. I cried all the way to where home used to be, where my mother waited for me with a warm bath and a thick blanket-almost as if she knew I would be so cold that night.

I knew a boy who cannot love because he grew up not knowing how a warm hug feels like. He pushed and pull me away and he relived his worst past seeing the silhouette of his runaway mother in my eyes but I loved him anyway. He is still home and he knew that, but a broken roof cannot shelter a heart like mine and the day we broke up I drowned.

Where is home anyway, I scrubbed away all the maps on my palms.

here to serve some passive aggressive poems
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