Home

Home.

It's a place where we feel welcome, a place where we feel loved. Home is the place that feels perfectly imperfect because we all have our flaws. Home is where you make it, where you have a family, where you feel happy.

For a long time, I didn't realize this. I didn't know what home really was.

I used to hate the idea of going home. I hated being there. Not for any real reason, just because I hated how my parents made me feel when I was around them. I hated not being alone, not being able to listen to music without being called downstairs and being yelled at for not hearing them. I hated not being able to isolate myself, because for a long time I thought that was what I wanted.

The only time I feel at home is when I'm in the arms of my boyfriend.

When I'm with him, I don't get butterflies. I feel warm. I feel happy. I feel like it's a sunny, summer day and we're going out for a picnic. Being with him makes me feel I have flowers in my face, and there's sunshine everywhere I look. And it's calm, quiet, but not silent. When I'm with him I can almost hear the buzzing of bees and birdsongs.

He makes me feel accepted. He makes me feel loved. He makes me feel wanted.

He makes me feel okay. And I think that's what home is, being with the people that make you feel okay when you don't.