No Home to leave

Breathe.
There is a glass on the table, it is clean and polished off but you can smell the faint sent of alcohol that lingers. Home is not like on tv, there is no shattered bottles thrown against walls or drunken yelling. Just a glass on the table and a lump of a form of a human sitting on the lounge infront of a tv. There is no lingering hurt from a yelling match, just a stench and a passed out snore. With a slow grunt the lump turns back to human and walks out the door, back to work and away from here. I will miss the feeling of them in a few days but for now there is a lingering smell and I just want... I don't know what I want. The glass on the table sits there. It's not bad.

Breathe.
There is a door closed, the sound of a keyboard and the stench of old coffee comes from under the door but apart from that nothing. No cliché sobbing and cusses of a work that is downing but just the quiet acceptance that this is hoe it is. The door is closed but I know that someones in there. It is 2 am. I know now not to offer anything to them, not to make coffee, not to make a snack, not to help and not to be there. They don't want me there. I make it easier, the kitchen is tidy as possible and I always eat, just so if no dinner is made I won't have to ask for it. Its not that the answer would be no, just that it would sadden the ears that heard the plea. I eat alone. It's not bad.

Breathe.
There is yelling, not the frantic kind where words of sharper iron then knives are thrown but the words of exhaustion and desperation. The door is closed and those around sleep but you can hear the muffled yelling and the lack of hope in every word that leaks from the door. They don't see me. I slip into my own room, where there is this warm blanket and thick pillow that can make me feel like I am being hugged, that I'm not alone. Time drips by and as I venture out again the yelling has ended. The words fall quiet and the breathing softens, the soft words of apologies and begs to find an answer to a question with no solution are asked. There is no answer. It's not bad.

I want to go back, to turn away and walk into my memories, into the embrace of times where i was ignorant and thought that the love in this house is unconditional. I want it to be unconditional. They love me, they feed me and care for me. They yell, and drink and drown in problems and their floodwater has taken me as well. I need to leave I think. If not because they love me but because I know that if I stay any longer the memories I hold onto will turn dark and bitter. I want the memories to stay happy, for them to be safe and for it to not spoil and rot like all good things do. It is not a bad place. It was a home, and is to them. But the home that I loved has been rotted from the inside out and I can't help but feel disgust for what will be left of me if the rot attaches to me and takes what little I have left away. I can't breath any more and I want fresh air again.

I can't escape, can I? I am stuck tied to these things and I will never be able to leave. Their love had turned rotted and latches on like cats-claw creeper to a tree, weighing it down till the tree falls. They are a vine that will cover everything, and do it while loving me. Why can't I hate them! Why can't they let me go, why can't I run. My home, had days that I cannot lose to to this house. I love them, but I can't love this house. I need to leave, please let me leave.