I don’t want to go home.
I don't want to go home.
I don’t want to go home only to remember that our house will be lonelier than ever.
I don't want to go home only to reunite with the growing hatred I feel for my mother, who looks at me with shame and indifference to my trophies of failures.
I don’t want to go home knowing my dad will not come home anytime soon.
I don’t want to go home — I don’t want to wake up and sleep in a place that never feels like home.
Let my heart be truthful for once. Why can’t I, in my adulthood years, cry for real like a 5-year-old child? This unknown pain, this long-buried frustration will always be here unless I abandon my decency as a grown-up.
When the thunder struck, I thought my life would finally turn into a drama. The injustice that fell upon our family would tear us down and bring us closer. I will cry my heart out and break the wall I put on for 25 years.
But no.
Life goes on like nothing happened, I am forced to be strong and not utter a single word.
Pity my soft heart, pity my childish soul trapped in an adult body. Pity my heart that feels everything so very deeply and suffering from the inside.
I don’t want to go home. I want to exist where time doesn’t move and life is a boring movie that is just good with all its modesty.
