This is not a home. It is just a house barely standing on its own.
This is not a home.
Where it feels as if the temperature is always 40° below just because we can't get along.
It's so cold.
This is not a home.
I know I don't belong here.
You dread waking up the next day to hear my voice.
It pains you and you wish nothing more than to swallow a thousand aspirin in hopes of forgetting your daughters name.
I'm sorry for all the headaches.
This is not a home because I am not perfect and I wish to not hurt nor harm a single being on this planet with hands nor hearts.
Your ways aren't mine and I cannot help but to think you hate me because of that. You point out my flaws and mistakes to everyone you meet.
Tonight I ran outside on bare feet because I thought if I were even a few inches away I'd feel free, but I froze before I could hit the count of fifteen.
This is not a home.
A place where I feel trapped and chained no matter how many shoes I wear down right to my bones.
Here feels so alone.
The thing I hate most about myself is that no matter how I try, how patient I am, how delicately I tread I will always step on a branch in a forest made of weak wooden bridges.
This is not a home. It is just a house barely standing on its own.
