2.

~an intruder 

When I leave the land of my childhood, I begin to bloom again. Nothing is worse than feeling trapped. Feeling like a prisoner in the country you’re supposed to love, protect. The invisible sticker reminding all I’m an intruder has been removed from my forehead. The ongoing laughter slowly trailing off. I’m going to my people, I’m going home. I can’t escape the irony nonetheless. The place I call my home is where I’m truly an intruder. The place I call prison is where I’m truly home.