heimatlos'

Photo by Mrinaal

heimatlos' | Ishita Tiwari

They say

run back to your home when you feel lost.

But no one tells you what to do

when home no longer waits

where you left it.

No one tells you what to do

when it collapses without a sound,

a quiet scream,

that settles, subtly, inside you.

I come from a place that waited for me.

Now I live in a place,

that keeps moving.

I sleep under ceilings

that do not know my childhood songs,

nor the companions,

whose hands I still long for.

I wake up to mornings

that don’t recognize me,

to a chaos,

that leaves me unsettled.

Sometimes, I speak to the version of me

who still knew where she belonged.

She asks why I don’t come back.

I ask her,

back to what?

Because home is not a place anymore.

It’s...

a memory my body remembers,

a language I still speak

but am no longer heard in.

From the ruins of then, I am a refugee,

Living in tents

that threaten to crumble

whenever it gets too loud here,

And when it does,

the silence deafens me

But I still engulf it close to my chest

The fear still resides,

What if one day, fragments of my heart splatter,

And all left, are bones for crows to feast on.

It’s terrifying

how deeply home becomes identity.

Because in losing my home,

I have misplaced myself too.

I no longer belong.

I can no longer run.

They say

run back to your home when you feel lost.

I am lost.

But where do I run to?