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Jun 2015
And the sound of shattering glass sounds familiar and comforting. It sounds like home, feels like home. But you don't know what home is anymore. Is it the pain you feel when he ignores you? Or is it the bite of the blade you can't see, but can feel. Home is defined as 'the place where one lives permanently.' If that's the case, then home must be loneliness. Home must be your hugs, home must be the needle, home must be the drugs, it must be the ***** that still stains your rug. Because you can somehow feel all of these things at once, and it scares you. It scares you how comfortable you've become in all of this, and you want to get out. But home is permanent. Maybe you can run away. Where would you run to? Would you run to the girl who broke your heart? She's your home too. Would you run to his place and sleep in his bed? He'll use you and be gone the next day. Would you climb a mountain? You'd get discouraged and jump off. Or would you simply disappear? Disappearing has always been easy for you. Would you run through the smoke? Or sit there, breathe it in. Do you really want to run away? Or is that your enigmatic way of saying you want to stay? You want to stay home, stay in this fog because you don't know anything else. It feels like home but something is still missing. Maybe you can't run away, but you sure as hell can move out. So do it, move out. Move into her arms, because she's begging for a roommate, and probably wouldn't even make you pay the rent. Move into his mind, where he says there's not enough space for you, but you brought your boxes anyway. Move into yourself. You're lonely and you're body is calling out. You leave the vacancy sign there. Because you're tired of the familiar, the comforting. You moved out, you're homeless now. So tell me, was it everything you wanted and more? Because you're a nomad now, drifting from one persons arms to another's. Even though she's had her arms open this whole time. But the rent was due and you couldn't pay so you split. You split and you left and you won't come back. So, tell me, what is home? *******, what
Is
Home?
Home is her arms where you're not allowed to spend the night,
Home was his couch where he would **** your neck and not call for three days,
Home is in your bed, where you've staged your death a thousand times.
Home is in these words that you're writing right now, and ******* I wish you would just pay attention,
Home is in her eyes but every time you stare into them she apologizes and moves on,
Home was his arms where he held you too tight and you begged and begged for him just to talk to you, but no he wouldn't talk to you he'll never talk to you because more he wants more it's more he wants and you couldn't ******* give it to him, and
Home is in the sky where every night you tear at your wrists just to get there, and
Home is at the bottom of whatever bottle of ***** you're on now you can't remember because you're drunk you're always drunk and she's always sad and you can't help her and you hate yourself, and home
Home is in her sadness her self hatred,
Home is in the shards of glass behind your dresser that you so desperately reach for and,
Home is in the bar and in the streets and in their beds and you're always moving you're always moving, why can't you stay and,
Home is in her but like I said you can't pay the rent because it's already occupied and,
Home is in the confusion, and you say you want to move out but you don't, you don't want to move out because it adds to your ******* personality, makes you different, makes you mysterious, makes you special and, maybe once you become whole then you can move out. because whoever the **** is out there whether it be god or satan or allah or ******* buddha knows that you've written hundreds of goodbyes, and they're all in the nightstand next to your bed, and you want to move out but not out of the chaos but out of your body, out of your mind, out of your soul because- Every time, every time you called someone, or something home..they moved out. Vacated the premises. Missed the rent. And now your real estate is being foreclosed on and dear god, dear god you just want to move out.
This is a huge mess-it's supposed to have a sense of verisimilitude. Read deeper into the lack of punctuation and such.
Someone
Written by
Someone
637
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