I uneasily squeeze my way
through the halls and on my line of sight
are slapped grins, waves,
cordial greetings that make me crave
some comfort, a reminder,
a sense of assurance
that allows me to believe that
I'm still somewhat concurrent
with the rest of the world
that sits outside this dome --
a post-it note that says
"You're on your way home."
It's hard to trust that
despite all my worries,
I fit in the mold.
I know this from experience,
from when I was just a couple years old:
a square block
doesn't go in a round hole.
But hell, it hurts to know that
even though
my corners have softened
and I've trashed some fears,
all this was
was a few good years.
I've hated this place,
cursed its name,
wished for its downfall,
its final drop in fame.
Yet I've loved this place --
it's provided me the times
I'll never forget
'cause they remain entwined
with my fondest memories,
my strongest empathies.
So thinking back on it,
I might have been wrong to
accuse you of lying
when you said I belong.
I have never been so scared --
and I want it to be known --
to move on once more
and to leave my real home.
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