This house is no longer a home. My bed is in it. My shirts, my socks, underwear, and pants. I eat here. I sleep here. I bathe here. But this house is not a home. A home is a sanctuary. It's a place for meditation. It is a private getaway from the world. It's something that you can always depend on. It is YOURS.
This house is no longer a home. I walk in the door only to be greeted with blindsided punches. I feel like I'm walking on eggshells. There is no trust. No communication. No patience. No heart. And don't ask me who's living under that roof! I wouldn't be surprised to find someone living under my bed.
This house is no longer a home, but lord do I want it to be. I want to go home and know that everything is okay. To be in peace. To be content. To be hugged rather than strangled by these walls. I want to be outside thinking "I can't wait to get home". But this house is not a home.
Home should be heaven... but every time I walk through that door, I've opened the gates of hell.
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