Sometimes I don’t think I will ever get married because of how much I enjoy coming home to an empty house. Maybe it’s just where I live and who I live with but I never want to come home. It nearly burdens my heart to have to come home to a not empty house because I can’t just do what I want to in my own home, or supposed home. I can’t just cry. Heck I can’t even breathe loud without question. I can’t even poop in my own “home” without being made to feel like I shouldn’t. Home. I only know the feeling of home when I’m in the home of my second family.