We both know how this ends. You find yourself wandering the streets at night knee deep in that bottle of whiskey you found in your father's closet hoping that you'll find your way home. Home. Stop trying to build a home in a person that's constantly slamming doors in your face. Slamming them so hard that the walls come crashing down around you and you're left a trembling mess alone again. Wandering the streets again. Maybe you'll find your way to their doorstep and build up the strength to walk up the driveway but see the lights still on and turn around. Remembering what it was like to leave the window open at night because they couldn't sleep without the breeze. You wake up in the morning and can still smell them in your pillowcase you haven't changed since they left. You haven't changed since they left.