Lament of a Foreign Service Brat
The house stands empty
The closest thing I ever had to a home
Gutted
Pillaged by efficient, uncaring strangers
All that remains are carpets and curtains
Protecting the bare feet and tired eyes of a family that is no longer
there
And perhaps never was
Anger, passion, lust, pain, betrayal, rage, love, joy, laughter, tears
Soaked into the walls of the shell that was home
Now standing revealed as an inadequate hollow refuge.
Six years of emotions
No longer held back by the pressure of personality
Bleed back out from the walls
Through cracks in the paint left by rolled-up posters
Now sitting silent in a dusty crate.
They say no man is an island unto himself
That my personal tropical hell must be connected to the mainland
But the few bridges I haven't yet burned
I now find lead to places I don't want to be
And my home is just another shell on my beach.
Trapped in myself,
In the non-existent line separating the madness without from the madness
within,
I wander
Searching for a place to call home
Too insecure to settle on my own island
Too scared to swim to shore
No longer a part of a cold, quiet, freshly-painted house
That I spent my life trying to escape
But suddenly find I don't want to leave
August 14, 1998