You Can Live At Home Now
i don't have a home anymore i have a room where i sleep with a bed and my desk i have another room where i cook and another room where i can sit and read when i finally clean it up enough but i don't have a home i have a series of rooms linked by common pathways but it's not home and i don't think this place ever will be my home is 20 miles away from here in the suburbs where i used to ride my bike and where i sprained my ankle and got bit by spiders and my home is where my mother died and my father kicked me out afterward where my mother became a statistic of suicide for sociologists to ponder and my father told me his brother was drunk and had an affair with my mother which explains how i came about where my father asked my mother for a divorce after 28 years of marriage so he could re-marry his former wife and home is where my heartbreak is home is where nothing matters anymore and strangers decorate my former room my ex-family my ex-house my ex-life and i understand what it's like to drown myself in self-abuse in drinking and self-destruction in taking solace in other people because fucking is the only thing that doesn't hurt while i'm doing it that hurt happens later when i go to sleep alone again but everything else just makes this goddamn room seem like a morgue like it's the loneliest place in the whole wide world and i never got serious and then everything went black from thin sheets