“House” not “Home”

I am raised by my parents
Sometimes they’re there
Sometimes they weren’t
And when I grew older
I woke up into reality
A nightmare so horrifying

One day I’d hear mom and dad arguing
About something that isn’t worth fighting
I’d be on my bed all night
Trying to choke down the tears that are coming
I question myself “Is this what you call a family?”
Nothing but fights, lectures and feeling suffocated?

I should be grateful I have a house to live in
But I cannot consider it a home like yours
Because a home consists of happiness and contentment
Ours is rather dark, mad and broken

And when I’m lucky, my parents get along well
They’d laugh about anything and talk in a mild tone
And in those moments I started to genuinely smile
I felt like I could finally call this place “home”

But then grey skies poured over the earth
Everything was back to “normal”
Back to the old routines of our shattered selves
And I would cry myself all over again
Like I did in days like these

But…
One question lingers my mind
As I stay inside this destroyed house of ours
How can you feel so incomplete
when you were intact in the first place?

 

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