I sit in this house, with this fake family, and it is exhausting.
I never thought coming home to a quiet house would make me cry; but it is all I ever do anymore.
There is no light, no music, and no laughter here; only ghosts.
Ghosts of the family that lived here, and ghosts of the emotions that followed them.
Talking to my mother feels like white hot iron being spooned down my esophagus, because I never knew I could miss someone so much; someone so close and yet so far.
She posts about being freed on facebook, and sometimes I wonder if she is speaking that she is freed of me too.
I never knew I could be this angry; that I could hold this much rage inside of my body without letting it slowly peel away at my insides.
I only know how to be angry now, sadness hitched a ride with loneliness,
Because I will not ache for someone who did not want me in the first place,
I will not ache for someone who left me here all alone, taking care of a family who was not mine to begin with.
I sit in this house day after day, night after night, and it is beginning to suffocate me. It is beginning to steal the air from my lungs and the blood from my veins,
Because the one person who used to make us whole is gone, but not really.
And soon, it will begin to suffocate us all, and then we too will become the ghosts.