This isn't home.
I knew before I even left my mother's arms. I saw the power lust in a man I was told to respect. When wrong was right, I knew. As I saw the pain in my family. Watched my sister's bright eyes turn dull and listless and watched my brother's little body crushed by a bully of a father. That place wasn't home, and I begged for a way out.
The moment I stepped outside to supposed freedom, it became clear that I didn't belong. Kids are still abused. Women sell themselves. Tears flood the streets and mingle with the blood of tired sojourners. The young blood flows too; a child who doesn't belong knows no release other than a blade. A quick motion and their bitter life is over before it really started. Pain is palpable here. Behind the plastic smiles are aged, sorrowful souls, wishing for respite. Maybe the youngsters have it right. Get out while you can. Dying is freedom. This isn't home.
I've traveled these roads. I've tasted many sensations and sought the treasures of earth. I've even gone so far as to attempt the wonders of God. Not one of these has brought me nearer to something to call my own. Nations don't have it; my native land isn't anywhere. I don't know how to make myself fit in when I'm a foreigner everywhere I've ever been.