It is the same exact ceiling
the same exact feeling
just the difference of thoughts
that separates this
from becoming
another vivid
flashback.
you wish you'd
decorate
the stillness
of this moment
with a borrowed
sense
of home.
because regardless of the countless repetition
of clear statements
you provide yourself with
to promise your own heart
that this place
is yours,
that it, against all false realizations of fear,
shelters you;
you still know better.
and haven't the deafening silence
gripped you long enough
to know that even with the thickness of the walls;
the hollering, screaming, and the defenseless cries
still can make their way to your very ears?
haven't you had enough fleeting years
seeking a feeling you know
in your heart of  hearts
you are never to be granted?
love that came too late,
acceptance you gave up on,
and the warmth
you begged for
as a child
still will not have
the four walls of a freezing place
turn a restless, seemingly endless
fight
into a home.
cry about it all you want,
seek shelter in different
places, empty spaces, or even
corners that can completely
hide you.
sing loudly,
let the music echo
through the living room walls
until it becomes impossible
to wrap yourself up in the certainty
that you do not belong.
you cannot conceal something
that is irritatingly brighter
than a mid-August sun.
every song you sing
is nothing
but a war song.