not a home.

always,

always there was something

wrong.

something out of place

something unfitting

something unnatural.

the hugs were too tight

the kisses were not right

the smiles never reached the eyes

and

I was left.

always.

always to wonder

why? why?

then,

one day,

after a very long time

I checked my scars,

my bruises

my bitterness.

that were inflicted by him.

inflicted by me.

and, I understood.

whenever he opened his mouth

it was not the heart

but the brain.

that spoke the words.

the words.

that I heard with the heart.

He said what I wanted to hear.

I heard

what I wanted to hear.

I heard

what he wanted me to hear.

But, it was not his fault,

nor mine.

nor time.

he was 'the type' of a man

who saw the mirror in me.

I was not the mirror.

nor the door,

nor The Answer.

but, he was in search

for The Answer.

and,

I was in search of a place to call home

he was not my home.


[P.S this poem is highly influenced and inspired by Sarah Kay's "The Type".]