My sister tells me I’m two different people: when I’m home and when I’m away at college.
Admittedly I do better when I’m away. But she thinks that I revert back to “who I am” when I come back, but doesn’t stop to think that maybe it’s the environment I’m in.
My home is by no means peaceful unless you choose to ignore the faults and moments of toxicity.
What if the “me” that comes back home is different from the “me” that leaves because my home life gives me no space to grow.
Leaving does.
But all this back and forth between away and home makes me dizzy because I am constantly shrinking and growing at the same time. I’m never just growing.
It sucks but it’s something.
And I hang onto that something because if it slipped through my hands,
if something becomes nothing,
I don’t think I can meet the sun every morning
without the constant darkness
that tears at my skin
and opens up old wounds that I’ve thought have since healed.
When I’m away, I’m lighter,
buzzing like bees going from a beautiful multi-colored meadow to another, crafting golden honey that glistens in the sunlight,
that leaves a sweet taste in my mouth.
And I don’t want to let that go.