I Must Belong Somewhere Read online

  Also by Dawn Lanuza

  The Last Time I’ll Write About You

  The Boyfriend Backtrack

  What About Today

  Break-Up Anniversary

  This Is How It Starts

  You Are Here

  Stay a Little Longer

  TRIGGER WARNING:

  This book contains discussions on death, suicide ideation, violence, bullying, injury, self-harm, body image, sexism, and mental health. If you feel triggered in between these pages, feel free to give yourself the space and time to breathe.

  Take care of yourself.

  1

  She didn’t know where she was from.

  On the first day of school, freshman year, people tried to know each other by asking three things: name, major, hometown.

  She knew the answers to the first two questions, but she’d always answered the last one with a question mark. It wasn’t that she lied; it was true. She had lived in that place longer than any place she’d been in, and yet she refused to call it home. She still thought of it as temporary, and she’d struggled to understand why, but then

  she remembered.

  She once slept in another city

  and woke up in this town.

  She’d never seen so much land

  and trees and rocks and colorful flowers

  bunched up in little bouquets of

  yellow and pink, yellow and pink.

  She was happy for a minute.

  She thought she’d stumbled upon

  a place where fairies could exist.

  The fireflies haloed the top of her head,

  crowned her their princess,

  and granted her a wish.

  She was who they’d been waiting for,

  and if she opened her hands,

  a glow would reveal her power:

  a light, blinding and searing.

  That summer, she played to her heart’s content. She ran around the railways and let the dust kiss her feet as she danced and twirled around it. She picked fruits from her uncle’s backyard and ate them until her chin was sticky from the nectar that dripped from her mouth. She convinced herself that she lived in a storybook because, for the first time, she was allowed to dip into a pool of water so cold her insides shivered. She loved her freedom, and she cruised the rivers looking for snails and toads, dared to visit the places where they said mythical creatures roamed.

  And yet.

  She knew that summer was ending. She started noticing notebooks piling up for school. The spiral spring had been taken off its sides, and the elders spun colorful yarns around to keep the leaves bound together. They started to bring up June, and it sounded like a threat, another separation from a world she just met.

  But the day came when she had to leave. They had her bags packed and everything. They never said she was going home; she would just have to go. And because she was young and braver then, she asked the question no one had been asking.

  She asked, “When are we going home?”

  And she knew, the moment those words left her mouth, that she wasn’t.

  She’s been leaving and arriving at places with a cautious heart since then. She’s aware that living in places is temporary, but sometimes she allows herself to be caught up in the magic. Like that summer. With the breeze running its fingers through her hair, whispering promises to her ears as the sun kissed her cheeks to say, “Aren’t you glad you’re here?”

  She convinced herself that wherever she is, she can build a home. But at times, she catches herself asking, What is a home? Did she forget what it was? Did she ever even learn what it should feel like?

  2

  Every once in a while she is convinced that she doesn’t belong here anymore.

  Yet she doesn’t know where she should be just yet.

  She finds herself where she is because she doesn’t know where else to be.

  Where would you go? she asks herself. If everything would be taken care of, where would you rather be?

  But she can’t see it that way yet.

  Her mind carries all of the worry and the weight.

  Sometimes, when she’s in a new place, wandering and learning its streets, she just hears herself sighing, I must belong somewhere.

  She hasn’t found it yet,

  but she hasn’t given up on the idea of it.

  3

  I am a suitcase:

  holding these things together,

  keeping them inside.

  4

  I have been walking around your town,

  tiptoeing, in case you’re around.

  Then I realized:

  you do not own these streets.

  Nobody put a claim on

  which ends we should

  or shouldn’t be.

  You are merely living,

  and so am I.

  So am I.

  5

  The thought of being in the same place as you scares me, but staying away from you for too long scares me in a different way.

  6

  She doesn’t have a bucket list.

  Thinking about it felt like

  enumerating things

  until she’s ready to die.

  That day, when she

  boarded that plane,

  sat one row behind

  the emergency exit,

  she thought,

  If this is my last day,

  I wouldn’t mind.

  She didn’t like to admit it,

  but she feared death

  when she was a child.

  Now she found herself

  actually thinking,

  It could be any time now.

  She used to worry about the things she’d leave:

  the mess they would have to clean up for her,

  the secrets they’d reveal at her funeral,

  the things she didn’t admit for various reasons.

  But she’s started talking now.

  She’s doled out apologies

  to the people who need them.

  She doesn’t sleep with the thought of

  making it better next time.

  She tries to make it better now.

  And if it doesn’t work that way,

  she lets it go.

  She knows now that she can only do

  what she can at the time.

  She doesn’t waste her energy on someone

  who won’t—can’t—reciprocate her love.

  She doesn’t live with regrets now.

  And if she leaves this earth,

  she will.

  She’s free from herself now.

  7

  Freedom is looking at your things and thinking, I don’t need all of this.

  8

  In the winter,

  the skies are bland

  and turn the city gray,

  but there are nooks and crannies

  in between the alleyways.

  There’s a tiny bookshop

  with pocket-sized stories

  and a chocolatier

  with his chocolate-covered cherries.

  A café that was named after a cat

  that makes the perfect cup

  and a bench in the middle

  in case one needs to stop.

  When you reach that corner,

  remember to look up.

  You’ll find that somebody

/>   drew you a heart.

  — graffiti

  9

  He asked her,

  “Why do you keep writing love poems?

  There are so many things

  in the world that need

  to be discussed:

  poverty and war,

  deceit and injustice.”

  And she said,

  “What hurt could

  a little love poem do?

  Every day that we see

  the world crumble,

  how are we not able

  to remember:

  a little bit of love

  could make this better.”

  10

  There are streets that stay alive in your head.

  Like St. Kilda and that busy street of

  bakeries,

  window displays of sweets and

  live music blasting in your ears.

  People from all over the world

  speaking in their native tongues,

  clinking beer bottles as the sun

  melts into creamy clouds.

  It’s orange and pink,

  violet hues;

  neons, sharp strokes,

  alleys, and walls.

  Posters of people

  writing poetry with their hands.

  It’s everyone speaking out at once:

  a harmonious cacophony

  of lives being lived

  that summer day.

  11

  Her mind is a born voyager,

  always curious about what’s to discover,

  willing to embark on expeditions

  to locate the unknown.

  Her heart, however, is a creature of habit.

  It is craving the sunlit porch,

  the hot pot of chamomile tea,

  a worn-out winter blanket.

  She flees because

  she can’t help but sate

  her interest,

  but she always comes back

  home to the familiar.

  She allows herself to be called

  a wanderer,

  but she always knew that her

  goal was to settle:

  to find herself satisfied,

  to no longer wonder

  what was missing

  from her life.

  12

  They tried so hard to build a home.

  There’s a roof above their heads,

  but they’re still seeking shelter.

  Did they really have the time

  and space to recover?

  13

  She wasn’t one of the kids who wanted

  her parents to get back together.

  There was no together,

  even before.

  She saw how her mother blossomed

  after they left him,

  and she would rather have that

  than recall her silence

  in his presence.

  She learned how to choose herself by her mother’s example.

  Not everyone would understand it;

  she remembered people looking at her

  strangely whenever she said,

  “No, I don’t want my father home.”

  For some people, that made her seem bad,

  like she was the devil child,

  but she always knew:

  you can’t repair something that never worked,

  and that was the truth.

  14

  As she made her way onto

  the Great Ocean Road,

  they talked about forest fires

  and how people learned

  to build their homes

  with protection in mind,

  in case the fires started.

  They will;

  it’s just a matter of time.

  On her left stood trees

  with no sign of life,

  trunks black as charcoal,

  branches spread out.

  Standing tall

  above the wreckage of it all.

  And she’d never felt so proud.

  15

  A screaming match in the kitchen. They should have christened this new home with kind words and hushed tones.

  For even the most loving words won’t sound very loving in a harsh and raised voice.

  16

  It’s one thing to be a spectator of someone else’s loneliness,

  another thing to be a prisoner of your own.

  17

  I’ve never read your suicide letters,

  never seen them either.

  I know that they’re there,

  tucked between the bed

  and your pillows.

  Maybe they’ll slip out of

  your books or sketch pads.

  But I do know this much:

  you’ve had the words

  written on your face

  all along.

  I read them from the way you recoil,

  body curled into a tight ball.

  You never turn your lights on,

  the darkness a blanket as you shiver.

  You remain quiet during the day

  but a noise of pots and cutlery

  during the night.

  I’ve never read

  your suicide letters.

  I’ve lived with them instead.

  18

  People started to disappear.

  We’d always heard of this,

  but it was a different time—

  that is, until the names

  of the missing sounded familiar.

  Like Joni, who I grew up with,

  lived next door,

  played with my brother after school.

  They said he was one of them, too.

  He used to walk around the corridors,

  wore shirts that were washed and ironed.

  He was nicer than most,

  didn’t care if someone was cool.

  He taught me how to jiggy that one time

  ’cause my limbs didn’t know.

  He said, “Just bend your knees,

  move to the beat.”

  But that was then.

  We had lives outside,

  grew up.

  He slipped out one night,

  only to be taken in

  as an exchange

  for someone.

  Caught, red-handed.

  He ran through the streets

  carrying packets.

  Door-to-door deliveries,

  cloaked by darkness.

  I didn’t know how he

  had gotten into this.

  He was the boy I knew,

  led the prayers when we were both in

  Catholic school.

  He always had a pretty smile.

  That’s what I remembered

  to be true.

  People started to disappear

  long before I even noticed.

  They skipped towns.

  They lay low.

  The unfortunate ones got caught.

  The lucky ones chanced upon redemption.

  The poor ones were found on the road.

  Sometimes wrapped up like animals,

  others left to bleed on the very streets

  they grew up in,

  in front of the people

  they grew up with.

  People disappeared all the time,

  but now we feel them missing.

  They warned us about this,

  and yet we just keep w
atching.

  19

  You also disappeared, didn’t you?

  You ran to a far enough place

  to avoid what was happening to you

  and everyone you knew.

  But even with the distance, you learned:

  no amount of miles could make you

  any less

  frightened.

  There’s a scribble

  at the bottom of a page

  of your old notebook.

  Once you were afraid, too.

  Someone once told you:

  whatever it is that scares you,

  do that.

  20

  Year twenty-nine was

  learning to say yes,

  knowing when to say no.

  Finding a place,

  a familiar face,

  having the courage to go.

  21

  Half of me is worried about the lives I’m not living;

  half of me is too tired to do anything about it.

  22

  How hard is it to leave someone,

  wondering if you’ll come back home

  to a corpse?

  You either choose to stay

  or leave so fast,

  so far away, that

  you won’t have to see

  the blood trail,

  hear the last hitching breath,

  smell the stink of a day-old body,

  taste the chill of their stiff fingers

  where there is no pulse,

  no blood,

  no life,

  no recognition of the man

  you loved.

  How do you carry

  the guilt of leaving

  for a moment

  for yourself?

  How hard is it

  to live with someone

  who wants to die,

  knowing they want to live

  but somehow can’t quite make it?

  It’s like standing over a cliff,

  your hand stretched out,

  hearing yourself yell, “Take it!”

  You see it in their eyes.

  They want it.

  You hold on and pull them up,

  but the weight, even for you,

  is too much.

  You strain your muscles—

  no, don’t let go.

  You get that resigned look,

  and you know.

  They will let you go—

  and soon.