Writers 
What is a home?
A pocket of stones
Dragging in the sand
I was six years old when I learned to carry the weight of a house on my shoulders.
I was born into sand,
Learning how to make food from sand.
I was moved to a city,
and taught how to make home from a house.
The roof stayed dry,
but the love leaked.
We ate at the same table,
with different smiles.
Some were real, others felt fake.
Love felt incomplete
Was this the home I wanted?
I asked.
I learnt to read the air before books,
Carry burdens I was too small for.
Carry emotions I couldn't even define.
A heart too heavy to confine
A little girl told not to whine
Talking without ears to listen
Calling it home to survive the time but home never called me mine.
Mine felt impossible with those walls that couldn't hear my cry .
Heart that felt heavy but nowhere to lie .
So I went to my mum
The only place my cry was not numb
One who felt my pains before I'd cry
Nurtured my tears like they were her pain
And for the first time, I felt safe.
Looking out for people was no longer my priority
Finding me was what mattered.
