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