what is my home if home isn't home anymore
whats a house full of locked memories pushed
to the side in decaying cardboard boxes
gathering dust with my whispered scary stories of a place called home
whats a house without beating hearts?
a cemetery.
a house of the walking-drained
I find it incredibly ironic that the place I'm living in is killing me
suffocating me with echoing words and ghosts that linger despite the blinds being wide open
home was temporary and then mailed and lost
amongst letters to Santa and I'm sorry cards never read and bills and taxes divorce papers and trial hearings, court cases and prescriptions expired
home is written on my heart in scars and on my tongue leftover from the unuttered phrases and cries only to be heard by the moonlit room of my brick walls
home is a factory
routine assembly line of insults and prying questions and denials that are cast on the floor crunching beneath my feet
this house I am residing in is not a home
how could it be
when the mirrors are plastered up with this-is-what-you-must-do and unanswered questions only to be replied with excuses of uncertainty and disabling fear, swirling, fogging up my vision
home is where my heart burns and my legs ache.
there's no safe haven
not in this house.
not even behind dead bolts and lock and secrets of the mind
home isn't home