Home Is Not Where The Heart Is

Some say that home is where the heart is but not for me.

For me home is wherever his body lays, strewn out and tired, across ground

My home is in his chest, listening to the heavy strum of his heart, as his blood ebbs and flows with tantalizing waves of promise for what cannot come.
Home to me is in the golden fleck of his eyes glinting against the light like Icarus, ravished with pain as he is burned by the sun and falls to ashes.
Home to me is the empty wails of his cries as he pleads with me not to let go but to hold on with him one more time as I fall deeper into that black hole.

So Yes.

For me home has never been that of comfort or hope or warmth, it is that of pain and angst and fire and wrath.
The kind of pain that indents the chest and crushes the lungs to the point you feel like drowning, like you cannot breathe.
Home has never been that which has offered me comfort, no mother cooing over a precious new born with cheeks as rosy as red can be, no father with a cheerful wink in his eye.

No!

To me home is feeling your soul tearing and thunder crashing in your ears as your head struggles to conceive what is left for you in this world
Home is the act of feeling your flesh being flayed from its very skin as your nails scratch away, trying to find something worth living for within yourself.
Home is the sorrowful look in his face and the strength in his hands as he holds you close and
says

“You can get through this one last time!”

Some say home is where the heart is, but his heart belongs to me.
So maybe I am home after all.