Hmmm?

I don't know what's wrong with me: I don't want to be with my family but I want to be with my sister and mother, not my nephew and other children. Do I want to be with my mother? I want to be in the presence of good intention, not guilt tripping over my calm and crushing it like a dying Autumn leaf. The pain is there, I know it is; because my heart writhes and pumps and tries to free itself. It hurts greatly, so much that I cry, and the tears threaten to stain my face. I know what my mother will say; she will see my bloodshot eyes and ask me if I'm on drugs. I can't bear to hear her, and I take to my room. She wants to punch me. There's a mean look curtained by her green irises, and I don't doubt that she hates me. My sister is disappointed; she wants me to go with them. And she'll hate me now, for sure... because I won't go, because she's with my nephew. Don't you see if that I go I'll be trapped? I don't want to be the person that ensures my captivity. I don't want to go because I won't be happy. I don't like that they don't see that.
Stay behind, Myra will say, if that makes you happy and more comfortable.
Comfort zones are vital, she says too, and I know. I know it all too well, just as she knows me too well. Too well for her own good. Mother breaks my heart, my sister flattens the remainder fragments; my nephew runs his miniature firetruck over the shattered icicles and makes engine noises with his lips. I don't like that they don't see it's not safe out there at all. People are bullies, especially children. They look up to their parents who grew up on the illusion of superiority; boasting their way through life with fists and dirty narrowed eyes. They pound quivering walls until it's all one big room, and not a house with different sections. I'm in another house. I like houses with walls. That way, I know what mood I'm in. Myra stays in my room only, for her comfort is my own; just as her presence whispers to my heart and puts it to sleep. It's no longer writhing. The tears that burned it in its place have now evaporated with time.
Comfort zones are important, she will say to me again. Her voice has the soft glide of dancer's grace on smooth ice rink floors.  I'd like to hold her properly, but I can't. Not until I light a fire.
I know, I will say.
Go and have a fag, she will interrupt me completely with the trace of a smirk. A fag and a handful of anxiety busters; sounds good to me. Until they return; til then I can rest my blinded nerves.