Fire squad

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I am at the front door holding the key of the apartment in my hand. I can feel the cold metal pressed against my skin.
If I unlock this door I'll be home. Alone. Again.
My hand is trembling, it is shaking....
Inside this place every inch is familiar, every corner is memorized, every thing is still and dull and lonesome.
Even my guests room is disappointed with the lack of company.
If I get inside I will be alone. Again.
With no one but my self up against all my poisonous thoughts. The fire squad.
Every thought is bullet. A bullet that doesn't necessarily hit me but it definitely deafens me and I don't get a chance to recover from the chaos to be shoot at with another bullet again. Sometimes they do hit me and I just watch myself bleed and I wish if I die then but I don't.
In the safety of darkness, they creep up on my skin, the false sense of safety keeps me occupied. I am safe. I am alone and I am safe. But I am not. I know I am not. Theses thoughts don't play fair.
In my good days I can shove them out, I can put out the sparks before anything inside me catches fire, at other times I burn to ashes and it is too late to do anything about it.
I have a wormhole in my chest, no matter how much I try to fill it, it never works, it only desired specific things and I don't have them.
The wormhole feeds on these thoughts, and with every passing day I feel it expanding, constant and persistent.
I am not enough.
I don't deserve anything good.
I am a failure and I will never be enough.
I want to cry but I can't, usually tears help, they wash away these thoughts, or it is how my body gets rid of these thoughts. But I don't cry anymore.
I want to be alone. I think I do. I'd like to think that I chose this life, that I chose to go home to an empty house and leftovers and no one to ask if I arrived safe yet.
I don't dwell on the truth, I don't allow myself to think about the truth. It is too much. For now. I'll just enter the house, and sit in my guests room for a while.

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