A House, Never a Home
rating: +13+x

The house I was born in holds no trace of me anymore

The walls are a pristine white that almost burns the eyes

All the posters I haphazardly taped up are long gone

My mattress gone, new bed draped with a lavish cover

You live in a house without me.

A house that I never lived in.

A house that I burn to the ground every night in my dreams.

I used to dream of a place without you. I live there now.

I walk around cold empty hallways checking corners for you.

The relief of not finding you has long since become a deep unease.

And sometimes I visit the town you live in. Bask in the sweltering heat and smog.

I hate the heat, but it feels so much more real than the cool breeze that greets me every day.


I find myself grieving that sterile white house every now and again. Maybe less the house. Maybe more the person that should’ve been living there.

For the person I am now has no home

And I tell everyone about you, just to see their faces contort with disgust, just to see their posture grow tense, just for it to be real.

And I treat myself the way you did to make up for your absence. I pretend to understand myself and the world so deeply and profoundly because everything that hurt me is now gone.

But the ache still lingers.

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