Sometimes

Sometimes I want to talk about it. I mean, I want to really talk about it. Because it's hard to keep me bottled up. Sometimes it just feels like I'm like a soda can in the freezer, about to explode, because I haven't talked about it in too long and sometimes it's like everyone forgot, and sometimes it's like there's nothing for me to do but remember. Sometimes it's all I can think about, because it was such a big problem. It's hard for me to be like this, because, no, I'm not okay. I want to be, if that counts for anything. It doesn't though, does it?
But it doesn't though.
It's an escape for me, thinking of being home. Where is it, home, and when will I find it? Because I need it. It's what I think when I just need to not be where I am: I want to be home. And home is where the heart is, but my heart feels pretty far right now. I know it's there; I can feel it racing when he's here, pounding when I'm thinking about what happened, hurting when it's another compliment that I don't deserve. So it's there. And home isn't here, so I guess we all know how this is working.
I want to go home.
home home home. What is that anyway? What does that even mean? Because it's not where I live, it doesn't seem to be where my family is, despite my loving them, and it's not with him, which was what I was hoping for. And it sucks. Because it's my escape, home, and I can't find it. The only thing I have to use to escape from everything is an abstract idea I don't understand, can't attain, and can't find. What a good way to live a life, right? Dreaming of something that I might never find.
I want someone to talk to.
I want it. I want it really bad, but that's also out of reach. Because it can't be her, because it just wouldn't feel right. And it can't be him, because it's just not him, it's just not what I can see. And I don't want to take it back to the woman behind the pad on that couch that barely shifts at her slight existence, judgement all I hear. She doesn't care. Why should she? All she's there to do is tell me how far I am from being okay. What's motivating me to be honest with her? She has other clients to care about. Why should she care about me. At all. No reason.
I need someone who actually wants to hear it. I need someone who's not going to judge me, and not going to tell me how well I'm doing, or bullshit a lot about how much they care about me. They must know me already, because meeting me after already knowing is absolutely no good.
I need someone to talk to, and I need home.
But they've all forgotten, so what do I matter? I'm pretty much nothing any more. Just that other daughter they have, who they love dearly.