My heartbeat slows down, when I smell the ocean surrounding my home island. 
I adore the view of the beach, and the mountains framing my old house. 
The newly built orange house I left behind when I moved to the city, against my will. 
I smile when I notice the little cracks, in the roads we drive our cars on. 
At least on the few roads that aren’t made out of gravel.  

I cannot go home. 
Our guests dig holes in our lawns, and shits in them.  

I fucking hate tourists.