Tuesday, May 6, 2014

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".]