Gotta Get Better

- i call this home -

The kitchen where my parents drank their booze and smokes their cigars. With it's blood stained floors from when they fought. Walls that are crying for help because they always get punched. I almost felt bad for my parents, but I couldn't. I couldn't feel anything. My body was numb. The abuse I took from my parents everyday was the only thing I could feel. The only thing I was told to feel.

The living room where my parents lecture me when they're drunk out of their minds. That stupid, ripped couch they made me sit on. A rug with red wine stains all over it. With a reclining chair in the corner, where my dad sat and drank his Budlight. The television that was never turned on. A broken light fixture attached to the ceiling. My heart is similar to that light, broken.

The dining table that my parents broke a whole ago, unfixed, laying on the floor in two. All of the broken glasses on the floor. Those uncomfortable wood chairs that hit the wall, but that was an "accident." A red candle in the corner with the wax melted. The teared up wood floors that I scratched my knees on plenty of times.

My parents room with a squeaky bed. A raggedy old mattress that they sleep on. Fucking disgusting. Their ripped up condoms they threw out after they fought, because that's the only way they could "get along."

My room with a somewhat comfortable bed. My mirror only shows a little girl with bruises all over her body and a busted lip. The stuffed monkey that caught my tears.

Everyone and everything in that house was mess. The constant screaming of my parents, whether it would be at each other or at me, always rung in my ears. Seeing both my parents ruin their lives with drugs and drinks replays in my head. I have tear stains tattooed on my face. All I have ever known is that hole my own parents dug up for me. A depressing, dark, deep hole. My parents didn't take care of me. I was "too mature" for my age. The most idiotic statement I've ever known. It's like it was my fault and it was the worse thing ever. All because a kid wasn't acting like a kid, as if that kid had any choice.

I knew I needed to leave. The minute I turned 23, I left. I had practically nothing, but that wasn't anything new. I ended up getting a job, got a sad little apartment, went to college, and moved across the country. I was doing okay on paper. Mentally, I was this nervous, depressive mess. My parents fucked me up. Why have kids if you can't take care of them?

Welcome home.