Where Love Heals

The Way Home

I used to think
love was finding someone
who felt like home.

A place to exhale.
A voice that softened the noise.
Hands that promised
they weren’t going anywhere.

So every time someone stayed,
I unpacked pieces of myself.

A little trust.
A little hope.
Another room
with my name on the door.

And every time they left,
I walked through the empty halls
wondering
what I forgot to become.

Someone easier.

Someone quieter.

Someone worth staying for.

It took me a long time
to realize
I had been searching for an address

when I had one all along.

Home was never
a person.

It was the version of me
that laughed without apologizing.

The one who loved deeply
without making herself smaller.

The one who stopped confusing
being chosen
with being cherished.

Maybe love will find me again.

Maybe it won’t.

But the next time
someone knocks,

I won’t abandon myself
just to open the door.

I’ll welcome them in
only if they know
this place is already full
of peace.

Because I finally understand

the greatest love story
I’ll ever live

is the one
where I never leave myself.

Jacque Michele