What does home feel like?

At the end of every long drawn out day my classmates get to go home,

yet as the hours tick by my stomach twists with anxiety.

For when that solitary bell rings

I must return to

that battle ground,

as does my mask,

or at least the thicker one.

For there, in that place I go to, I cannot be seen to be me.

For there I will never be seen as human.

No, I stay quiet, do my chores, stay in my room and do my work, make no sigh.

I am here unless they talk to me, directly ask for me.

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They don't use my name.

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They don't let me do as I will with my hair

I must be exactly as they want me and reply to that which I am called. That false identity.

At meals I eat in silence, we all do.

But then at night whilst I lay unable to sleep in the uncomfortable shell they've bestowed upon me

I leave these blank concrete walls that imprison me sprout wings in colours pink ,white and blue.

With these wings, I soar above this all

The parts of me I hate melt away.

As I fly she melts and as she melts I dawn him and he is me and I am free...

For a few hours of bliss that I own.

If home is meant to be this comfort and feeling of true belonging, then that night sky on which I fly, that is my home.

A home in which I can never truly stay for the distant clanging call of the battleground always pulls me back.

Back to her and her mask.

Back to hiding in plain sight.

Back here.