This household is full; yet empty.
This household is whole; yet broken.
This house is fake. Laughter is plastic, and the smiles are self-generated. When one smiles, they are signifying the fact that they are in pleasurable company. But where I am now, smiles means absolutely nothing. Where is the love in this empty household? There is tense, bitter laughing, but no warm, welcome smiling. When I talk to people here, they loosely look away without a glance.
I remember when I was younger, happier in the house, and I used to sing as I skipped through the narrow, wooden hallways. My parents would smile, because they knew I was in a happy mood. But as I got older, the singing seemed to stop. I lost all my reasons to sing. I want a reason to sing once more. I want a reason to stand up and belt out lyrics from the pit of my stomach. But this family is nothing to sing about. Problems are solved with bottles, pills, and blades. Where is the safety? When will secrets and silence be replaced with warm, familiar smiles? Maybe if I move forward, and keep my head up. Maybe if I choose to sing again. But I don’t see any of that happening in the near future. I want a better ending. I want a superbowl, a wedding, a sunrise, a broken cycle.
