What is home?
I used to think about this in a certain way.
When I was a child, home was an address that I had to learn.
On Luis Maria Campos Avenue I would say
proud that I remembered, with a smile on my face.
As a teen there was a change.
Home was a room, with a door and my bed.
A safe space where I could be free to be by myself,
do sleepovers and tell secrets to my friends.
Now that I’m away I find this meanings out of place.
I have an address and a bedroom with a queen-size bed,
yet my crew is not here and there are no memories to replay.
I left home in Argentina but maybe a new home is waiting to be made.
