Home

I'm thinking of home.
I'm thinking of loneliness and pasta at 3 am and folding laundry whilst watching some ridiculous late night  show on TV.
I'm thinking of the darkness outside. And turning off the lights.
Locking the doors.
Closing the curtains.
Saying goodnight to an empty house.
A girl at seventeen should not have to feel that kind of loneliness.
A girl at eighteen should not have to feel the need to leave home.
Home is supposed to be sanctuary.
A place you turn to when things go wrong.
When you're feeling sentimental and you crave your mothers cooking.
A place you know you can always get a good nights sleep in.
And for free. 
But that's not the home I know.
My home is cigarettes.
And emptiness filling the cracks of the foundation of the place.
A place where hurt and words and mistakes and memories flood through the front doors.
A place no one in their right mind would want to go to.
And for some reason it's the very place I want to be.
Right now.
In the mess. The rubble. The horrible silence. The fear.
The house that I called home.
The people I called my family.
I'm eighteen.
I should not feel like it's not right to want to belong there.
Belong to something.
Someone.
I should not feel like I have done wrong when it was me all along.
Always there.
Always watching.
Feeding.
Protecting.
Trying.
Cleaning.
Teaching myself.
In that empty house.
That is not where I belong.
And because I can't turn to my family.
The people who are meant to have been in that house with me
I feel like I can't belong to anyone.