Every day I came to that place, where I sleep all the nights, where I have my clothes, where I eat most of the meals, where my dad, mum, brother and my cat live. But, is that place my Home or It´s just my House?
Why I ask that to my self? Suposedly it has to be my home. But theese last days of my life, it wasn´t my home, It was just my house, the place where I do my fucking routine. Where I become mad with my parents, because of the things I do; they want a perfect girl and that sucks, they are all the time telling me what to do; I know that´s for my good, but please, I´m tired of triying to be perfect as you wish. I have told you, I´m not pretending to be a perfect woman, I want just to be how my soul and heart are, Just me; don´t you understand?
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