nostalgia makes me sick
a personal poem/reflection on "home"
(I was going to write about something but it morphed into a completely different thing. Anyways nostalgia makes me sick and so does vulnerability). ~
I never felt at home
in my dangerous apartment
next to the polyclinic.
My window overlooked various crime scenes
happening in the sketchy alleyway beneath.
The neighboring building burned down in flames,
giving me a brand-new view
in just the course of a short,
one-year lease.
That was my first time living alone.
The first time it was only my name on a lease.
I didn’t have anyone
to help me pick out our first date outfit
or gush to in the kitchen afterwards.
It was freedom
and loneliness
and a time where my most complicated relationship
was the one with myself.
I was afraid of my apartment.
My apartment was not home.
Home became the moments
we would find ourselves giggling
on the same side of a restaurant booth.
The familiar fit of your hand in mine,
and the songs I knew
you would put on in the car
before you even hit play.
Home was not the creepy staircase
next to my apartment door
that led to a dermatologist’s office.
Nor was it the moments we clashed
and I had to leave your place in tears.
Home used to be my childhood house.
The spot where the staircase met the ceiling
and I could scratch out the popcorn bits.
The room of my dreams
(figuratively and literally)
which my parents let me paint
multiple shades of purple.
The room that no longer exists
because we had to paint it white
to sell the house.
Is the apartment I’m now renting my home?
The second place to have
my sole name on the lease.
The one where we thought it would be a blast
to be neighbors,
but four months later,
you ended things
on the couch you helped me carry upstairs.
The place where I finally got my first cat
and then also had to get that cat
a kitten.
The floor I laid on
when I got the devastating news
that my last grandparent had passed away.
The bathtub that has become
my altar for regulating my nervous system.
Where I learned to fall in love
with myself again—
and that the wonderful feelings
I felt with you
still exist,
even if they have to take on new forms.
The place I learned I’m still capable
of having crushes,
even if they are
a unique type of torture.
Is home the beaches I grew up going to
and the people
I visited the ocean with?
I don’t know—
but I do know
I wish people would stop asking the question:
“Where do you feel at home?”