i live in a house
at the corner of the 3rd street
with white painted walls
made out of bricks of fake happiness and shattered hopes
like how my mother and my father
treated their emptiness like an old friend
and caged their love in the basement

i live in a house
with tiled staircases
and silenced curiosity
where the whys and the hows and when did it all started
all the questions
recycled, in my head at least
but none of us get the answer
none of us have the answer

i live in a house
where yelling is a way of communicating
and screams are lullabies
where good night kisses are slamming doors
where the bed feels like the only safe place when it should be the mothers arms and the fathers love
where i kneel down hoping god could at least end this
i do not want to see the sun anymore
because
the sun means another arguments and another heartbreak
until it numbs
until it has nothing more to destroy

i live in a house
by the corner of the 3rd street
where i could not call home
a house that makes me feel
h o m e s i c k
like i am in an unfamiliar town
not only lost
i am invisible
i am there but i am not there
and my voice feels like as if it were to disappear
every time i cry for help

maybe
just maybe
if mother and father
could look at each other
and feel something instead of nothing
feel love instead of cold regrets and unreasonable angers
maybe i could be at home again
maybe if my echoed voice
could reach you
and you acknowledge it
maybe i would be at home again