Don't read this if you don't feel like it. I just...needed to do something. And this is what I have.

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I don’t like my house.

Maybe it’s the way I was jerked from one to the other, being emotionally torn apart.

Maybe it’s the way the walls loom at me, seeming to shove sneering perfection down my throat.

Maybe it’s the wide, open windows, glaring at me, as if to say “get out”

Maybe it’s because I spend more hours at school (enjoyable hours, that is) than I ever did here.

Maybe it’s the crisp, white carpet that refuses to fade after these years.

Maybe it’s the calm, blending colors that take the fun out of me.

Maybe it’s the shushing of the computer, the ticking of the fan, or the thump of the dryer that gets under my skin.

Maybe it’s because when I visit friends’ houses, there’s scribble pictures on the wall from 1st grade, or the smiling family photograph, or the stain on the wall marking a fond memory; I don’t have any of that.

I have perfectly cream walls, durable white carpet, perfect wallpaper, elegant curtains, and absolutely no care for this house.

Maybe it’s because this house never became a home.

Or maybe my family never made it one.

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My friends don’t understand why I bemoan leaving school. They’ve met my parents: my perfect, nice, fake parents, and they think they’re great. Sure.

When I go home, I am flooded by a storm of emotions that I can’t let go, and every little thing about this house reminds me of it.

I call my house The Dementor.

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I just needed to get this out of my system. I don’t expect anybody to read it.