I hate this house.
It creaks when I try to sneak past my mother in the late hours.
The walls close in while it is dark.
It always seems dark these days.
The bleakness of my bare room has driven me hollow.
Driven me mad with angst.
So many sleepless and tear-filled nights in this house.
And yet, somewhere deep in the depths of my heart,
I have learned to love this home.
The long overdue conversations with my sister.
The bright blue wildflowers in the garden.
The recollection of her body next to mine.
Memories of life and death scattered through the halls.
This house may not be kind, and soon it will only be a memory,
But, it is real.
It is mine.
It is home.