"It's your home," they said. So I did my best, hoping my home would support me. But my home doesn't feel like a home. It feels like a tiny cage I'm trapped inside. My home— the one I've studied for, worked for, and suffered for. My home— the one that says it cannot feed me, even though I work for it. "It's your home," they said. Yet I feel unsafe outside and inside. "It's your home," they said. Yet I fear for the future of the little ones who will inherit it. When a home begins to eat its own, there is no one left at home. It takes a lot to understand this on your own, but it is supposed to be our home. Yet we live as strangers within it, ready to sell one another, ready to eat alone. What a lonely home.
