WILDFLOWERS BY FRANKIE BARRANCO

-I Would Describe Myself -

A broken bottle, thrown onto a littered beach. Discarded. Once holding something, but I can’t recall what it was. I would describe myself a former optimist-a carefree being. But years of pressure from sand and water have changed who I am.

A glimmer of hope-my edges that were once so rough are wearing down-revealing something I would have never expected. Beauty is finding her way into the darkest corners, and resurrecting something I cannot name—

Though I cannot name it, it is familiar. Perhaps it is the very thing I once held.

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-Why Am I Homesick?-

“I’m homesick.” I say for what feels like the 50th time this month. “What can I do?” He asks. I sigh. Nothing. My head sinks deeper into my pillow as my body becomes as rigid as a corpse. I’m trying so, so hard to not let the tears fall out of my eyes. My heart races. My head feels like someone has dropped a weight on it. I feel like my breath has been taken from me.

If home truly is where the heart Is, no wonder I’m homesick. I don’t really know where my heart is. I think it’s somewhere between a stuffy hospital room, and a family room on Hickory Trail Drive. I’m tired of trying to find the broken thing. I’m even more tired of this homesick feeling.

It’s like being thirsty, but I can’t drink enough. A cup with a gaping hole in it-it can’t hold a single thing. It’s a parasite that has decided my body is the perfect host, and I can’t convince it otherwise. How do I truly live, when I don’t feel alive?