i've been slamming my fragile little fists into dry wall for so long
i get angry at myself when my knuckles aren't bleeding
my mind isn't the cleanest it's ever been right now, but this is what feels like home.
there's stains on the carpet, the curtains in the kitchen window are ripped at the bottom, and sometimes the sink gives you cold water when you ask for hot.
i'm in love with my own faults and failures.
one time, i set a candle too close to the couch and watched everything go up in what looked to me like a southern sunset. next thing i know, they're calling me an arsonist.
the pills they put in my mouth to clean up all the ash made my home more like a hotel and everything smelled like a hospital.
i am sweating alcohol on a wednesday morning, i am gasping for air with a cigarette in my hand, i have been crawling in broken glass, don't you dare talk to me about holiness.
i want to tell you that in spite of all of that, i am free, but i'm not. i'm just used to it.