This place is an empty shell of what it used to be. I twist that rusty door knob only to find myself overwhelmed by a world that is cluttered with bitter emotions and heavy with depression. Not even the sheets of my own bed are comforting, anymore. All I can feel inside my burning-with-acid-chest is this relentless longing for warmth, of a different kind. A soul kind. Letting his bear-like arms wrap around my waist is a poor substitute for this hollowness that pervades through every inch of skin and stretch of artery and vein. How sad it is, the way I desperately attempt to find my home in the body of another during the nights when I feel like I have no home to rest my own bones in. After I step through that alabaster-pigmented door and feel the fuzzy carpet beneath my weary feet, I only perceive these walls as strange and this air as unfamiliar. This is not a home, but a house that has been abandoned; left to rot like flowers unattended.
My heart is so sad. That’s all there really is to say, anymore.