I wonder where all the manners disappeared, the etiquette I sit on, the grace I possess, home is not a place.
Where I can come everyday, crying away my days, dysphoria enshrouding every jovial fragment of me, wiping away the tears from my pale face; home is not a place.
But it adopts me, despite my failures, notwithstanding the despondency I carry, bringing me hope on the most sullen of days; home is not a place.
I eat, sing, cry, drink and dance, maybe even do a little bit of a prance; there is such a wild frenzy in the confines of me, these moments pass by as a phase, home is not a place.
It is a feeling that only the blessed procure, like a cool breeze in the blistering Mays, something that I will incessantly cherish and embrace; home is not a place.
Written by Nandini Sethi