Home.

I am “home” because I am laying in bed at my grandmothers house on another midsemester break, waiting for her to scold me to turn out the lights.

I am “home” because out my steamy, condensation streaked window, there is the local police car sitting with his lights off but his engine running across the street, under the same old flickering street light.

I am “home” because I have plans for the next week with family I never see, to wreak havoc on this town while we still can.

I am “home”, where I do not have to pay for groceries or electric, where the water pressure in the shower is good, and my bed is neatly made when I come home each day.

I am “home”, where my shoes lay piled up on each other under the wicker bench next to the front door.

But I am not home. 

Home, where I have began my own life and my gluten free flour is always stocked in the pantry, ready to be used for the best gluten free cookies to date. Where my spices sit aligned on the back of the stove, my tea sits in a quaint basket on top of my refrigerator, and where the smell of my fresh brewed coffee wafts through the house like a scented candle. Where my desk sits an organized mess and my wax burner cubes sit in excess in my bathroom cupboards. Where I am a short bus ride from the lively bar I work at, and an invite away from a social with friends or a random study date in the library. I am not home, where there are two eyes to get lost in, and two arms to fall into, and two legs to tangle mine around. Where there are lines to trace with my fingertips and an adventure to be had in each day. I am only home, I am not home. 

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