When you’re born in a burning house, you think the whole world is on fire. But it’s not.” -Richard Kadrey.

And when I looked down at my hands all I could see was my family’s blood:
My fathers anger, my mothers unsolved love, my sisters hope and my brothers wrongs.
The careless of the little one and the consciousness of the oldest.
I think the reason why I could always only see my house from afar is because Ive never actually lived in it.
I could see my pain and the things I went through from outside the window, just as little as the lamp light let me see through,
And that’s one of the reasons I keep forgetting and forgiving.
But lately the memories have been coming back…
well, not really the memories, but the rights and the wrongs that my parents have done to me.
And I try to use my hands to stand up and get off the ground,
but they are so slippery, so slippery.
Until now, I didn’t realise how much blood I was carrying around,
how many people died in that house.
A house, a house, a house
One house, one house, one house.
Only a house with a roof and some walls.
Trying all life to find a house I can call home.
But I couldn’t even get up, and if I got up
How would I clean all this red mess up?
Feeling the most disgusting creature on earth,
I was thinking I might as well sell them my own self;
When I felt something so familiar touching me,
I tried showing them but all they could see,
Was a wet hand-an innocent-wet-big hand holding mine.
And I kept begging them to see that
Both our hands, me and his
Were wet for once, but not at all clean,
Both our hands were bleeding hunger,
Though at last, they were holding each other.