Home is like hell.

By the time I enter the fiery pits I call my home,

the dread hits me like a tsunami wave.

See, it doesn’t feel like home to me.

Just a silly little word that people throw around.

You know what home is to me?

Home is somewhere I feel safe.

Somewhere I don’t feel embarrassed about.

Somewhere that I can just sit there

and actually be f****ng comfortable.

Home is somewhere that doesn’t have

random articles of clothing everywhere

Or antique garden gnomes scattered

across the already messy floor.

My ‘home’ isn’t a home to me.

Just a giant tornado of clothes

that were on sale five years ago

and old cereal boxes

that were deemed as ‘rare’ 11 years ago.

Worthless is the junk that sits in my ‘home’.

Worthless is how every little thing in that house

can be considered as ‘valuable’ to her.

Worthless is the amount of time that my family spends

to try making the house spic and span.

‘Home’ is worthless.