It's so funny how even seven years after the fact,
you can still make me feel like I'm fourteen...
completely Helpless,
a disgrace to the family,
an utter nuisance;
like I should stay locked in my room and not breathe your air.
I'm sorry.
I promise to change.
But I close the door and throw myself onto my bed,
try to drown myself with the warmth of my sheets,
and hum as loud as I can.
This way, I can barely hear your yells and the shattering glass.
I'm sorry.
What did you say?
But then my own thoughts break through:
Why did I come back here?
They say home is where the heart is,
but who were they?
