My home is the maroon brick walls and the dark black cement blazing into my skin. This is a regular summer day. People walking by me calling me strange and gazing into my eyes until they have to go. I wish I could be respected. I wish I could have a proper home. They don’t understand how it is in the ember streets made out of fire. You can judge all you want but this is my home.
I don’t have a fridge or a car or a house but I still have a home. They are different. A house has four walls and a roof, a home is a place where you live except your home isn’t always your house, if you know what I mean.