I have tasted freedom in many different flavors
And none of them were as sweet as everyone claimed they would be

Part of the act of escapism is getting to leave when the house starts burning

Who knows where the flames came from?

Who knows if any of it was love?

This house is not a home
I stare at these walls
Grab more clothes
Hug my mother
And leave again

I have lived so much of my life in borrowed space
You would think I was not welcome in my own home

But this house is not home

And if I could swim through the troubled waters you would never see me again

I look around and this house is still on fire
There's scribbled lines on door frames
Next to children's names
And the same plates they used at their wedding

There's
Whispers
And drafts
There's pain and flashbacks

This house is not a home to me anymore

Maybe it never was.