How is it that a home can be so cruel by just the thought of it?
How is it that it brings me such fear that it equals my fear for hell?
How is it that this place I call home causes ulcers in my mouth even if I whisper in its presence?
What a home indeed!
Fuelled with contempt, sorrow, nervous mental disorders and the occasional nausea of having to be brought up within its piss painted walls. Considering its vast ability to easily cause self-loathe, it can also accept me very dearly. Except that, it only takes in my flaws as lustful eager demons feeding its foundation.
I simply cannot abandon it, oh I’ve tried. The happiness I feel without it feels rather undeserved.
what am I without a home, what am I without its sorrow?