By Mallika Goel

Home is where the heart is, they say.

A bowl of macaroni,

The whiff of first rain,

Unrestrained laughter at a friend’s expense.

Home is where the heart is,eh?

You knocked loudly,

I shyly opened the door.

You proceeded to make yourself at home,

While I became a stranger.

You tore off the tapestry,

As I watched in silence.

You threw my old books out,

As I watched in silence.

You left without a final goodbye,

As I slammed my face against the door.

I locked my home that day, for good.

The other day, I caught that old familiar whiff,

I cautiously peeked out the window to see a friend,

Prancing towards me,

Holding out a bowl of macaroni,

Only to fall face first into the gravel.

I laughed and threw the door open,

As I reached him,

I slipped onto my back.

As we sat there, 

With dirt all over,

Trying to salvage what we could of the macaroni,

I decided that a home with locked doors is a glorified prison.

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