Home is supposed to be a place of comfort: A place where all of your worries and stresses melt away, A place where you come together to make each other better, but, in my case, a
home is not that kind of space.
Home isn’t *always* a place of comfort,                             

sometimes “home” is a place:
where the tears falling down my face aren’t tears of joy. My “home” is just a place where my stress intensifies, my “home” is constant yelling &
fighting,
& screaming & my “home,”
is just a house, with people acting like strangers,*
my “home” is a place where my face is hot—from the heat of anger,
but not,
from long, warm hugs (add perhaps: “ , and out of danger.” ?)
My “home” is a place where I have to pretend that I’m not who I truly am.
“Home”
is the place where the urge to use a blade and to split, and slice my skin, keeps increasing. H/o/me./ is broken.

& when I try to fix it,  it only ends up worse.