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Because this is just for me, I can talk about things.

It’s hard to understand how other people decide they can craft how you tell your own story. How you showcase them, their actions, their mistakes, their behavior towards you. But they do. And I don’t really feel like trying to explain why, how, when, and what I’ve said about anyone to anyone.

Not that I talk a lot about anyone other than this household. Who else really matters?

I’ve noticed that I’m the family member that the others ‘pose’ around. My sister hides the ugly parts of her life from me. My brother hides his drug use. My oldest brother doesn’t talk to me much in general unless he needs something. And, as much as it irritates me, I’ve pretty much taken to cutting them out of my decisions and nuances. I move forward without wondering what they would think, how they would react. I wonder more about what old friends would think than I do them, and I don’t talk to anyone outside of this house, really.

It’s a bad turn of events but it’s honest. Families grow apart. It’s all in the building, especially when you’re trying to make a new one. When you’re trying to solidify a new one.

I want a house.

That bug is back and biting, viciously, scrapping its teeth along my nerves. I want something for us to build upon. Me and the three sirs. I want to be able to really say

Let’s go home.