Home?

It's funny.
I sit here, almost 28 years young.
Cigarette in hand. My leopard print,
thigh length dressing gown grazing
my upper thighs and revealing that
there's nothing but flesh and bone
underneath. Looking through the
smoky haze at the half empty bottle
of Jim Beam next to me. Left half of
my face, slowly swelling. Cum still
dripping from one well-used and
abused hole. Feeling empty, like
when you've drank your last drop of
vodka and there's nothing left to
numb your pain. So you know, usual
shit.

And yet, I've never felt more at home
and at peace than after I've been fucked
in every way known to man, beaten
and left with the little money that will pay
the rent for the next week. It's small
moments like this that make me realise
that home was never a place for me,
it's when you feel at ease with yourself,
your life and where you're heading.