not your typical vacation home

It's raining inside a vacant home at the end of an unknown road.

No one knows this house exists. But I do. I go there often. I go to sit on the porch. I go to sit at the dining table and pretend dinner is ready. To hear the creaking of the
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                                                                                                                           s and floorboards. To see the empty picture frames that lay broken on the splintered ground. To smell the ashes from the last fire burned. To taste the autumn leaves that were carried in by muddy boots. To feel the warm rain that slips through the
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in the ceiling, the hole never fixed. It's there, in that broken home, where my very core stays trapped. I keep it there for reasons. Reasons sometimes I don't even understand. I guess they're excuses for not letting my heart take risks. Excuses for not letting my soul become more damaged and tainted than it already is.

And when I've spent enough time at the end of this abandoned road I close the door quietly, slip off the porch and walk back to the town where I try to belong.