How to put it...?

I don’t know how to explain to you that the only time I remember being close to happy was when we lived in a roach infested 2-bedroom apartment in the Bronx. I don’t know how to tell you that the shared rooms we frequented of all the people we loved were ours too, that we owned more property then than we ever will with this silence. There’s no way I will communicate my souls constant pulling at my skin, trying to escape this completely claustrophobic illusory “comfort” and contentment. I would love nothing more than to abandon myself and lay out to die or simply to run from any obligations and yet here I sit complicit to a death of another sort.