I'm living in a house that's not my home.
I've been taken in with open arms; a blessing that will never be forgotten.
But I'm living in a house that is not my home.
When I am reminded of this fact it makes me want to crumble because I've been without a home more than I'd like to admit.
It leaves an uncomfortable feeling that perches on my shoulder and slithers to the pit of my stomach.
I don't mean to take up space and I don't mean to be a burden, but please don't throw it in my face.
Don't throw it in my face because...
Fuck.
I already know that this isn't my home.
I'm reminded of that every day, somehow, someway.
Sometimes it's subtle like a whisper and other times its almost deafening.
I already know that this is not my home.
But there's nothing that I can do about it, not right now, anyway.
So for now, all I can do is live in a house that is not my home.