Sometimes the brick walls that you call your house, isn't your home.
I remember feeling cold inside and 2 in the morning, wondering why I felt like wanted to go home, while I was laying in my bed in my house.
Then I thought about how you were angry with something I said, again.
So you left me on read, again.
And didn't say goodnight, again.
And to you, it probably wasn't even a big deal.
But in my fucked up organ that I'm supposed to call a brain,
My home closed it's doors on me, again.
My best friend didn't want me, again.
My love spit on my emotions and needs, again.
But I let you do it again next week.
I let you do it again every week.
And probably, even now, three years later, I'd let you do it, again.
