I see nothing wrong with that because when I love someone I always find tranquility in him and I make someone my home, my comfort zone, my universe. I give love like it’s always Christmas day. I spread love like it’s always Valentine’s day. Lucky for me he made me his home, too.
I’m glad that he made me his home.
At the end of the day he is always crawling back to me. He always sees himself looking for me when he wants someone to tell him everything will be okay. I’m glad that he is comfortable with me, when I’m around. I’m really glad that he made me his home. His last place. His comfort place.
But I don’t want to be his home anymore; I don’t want to see him drunk at night. I don’t want to see the kiss marks on the collar of his shirt when he gets home. I don’t want to see him crawling back to me because he’s done spending his day with someone. I don’t want him to ask me to tell him that everything will be okay because while I might tell him over and over again it will be, I can’t even say it to myself – that everything will be okay.
Home is a place where you feel so safe. True, he is safer with me, but home is where you live, home is where you want to spend your day, home is where I’m the only one you want, home is not a place you go when everything is breaking apart.
I’m not his home; I’m his option – his last option.
He knew that I won’t go anywhere. He knew that whatever he does he can come home to me with arms wide open, but I’m tired. I lost myself. The love for myself is gone. The respect for myself is fading. I’m torn into pieces without him noticing it. He cared too much about himself that he totally forgot about me.
And that’s the reason why we must not make someone our home because when they leave – when they’re gone – they’re not the one who will be homeless – it’s you. You made them your home and once they set themselves on fire, it’s either you who will burn with them or you will save your life and be homeless.