My house is not a home because you are not there. I am the tattered shack in the woods you forgot about. My floorboards creak only due to the whiplash of the memories. The memories of your kisses barging in loosening all of the nuts and screws that kept the door on its hinges. In the back room there's a hole in the wall your echo left behind and thunder from the storms somehow fill it with your voice and I get so confused because I think it's you coming back but it's more of a cycle of psychosis and it's all a figment of my psychosis this isn't even my own imagination I can't seem to get you out and I'm not talking about this tattered shack anymore because I'll always have you with me, I'll always have you in me, you are always going to be here where ever I go no matter how deep I try to cut  no matter how drunk I try to get no matter how long I am sedated for this house is not a home because no one is there not even myself.