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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