This.

Imagine you're standing about three feet in front of me attempting to understand what exactly I'm trying to communicate in that unfortunate moment when words run dry and very little can be interpreted and the best I can do is to use my fumbling hands to act as if compressing the invisible matter inches from my chest while a simple word jumps from my lips much like an irrationally awkward teenager, "THIS!!"

This. It's the delicate string laced through what was, what is, and what one day might be. The feeling that draws and repels me simultaneously. It pulls at my longings and always recalls my fears.

I have no reasonable responses to sell at this nameless mile marker. I violently fight off the comfort I so desperately seek. Residual anger finds my fearful courage and forms the inward rebellion that was born to react spitefully against that which seeks to soothe me.

Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me I've gone too far from home. Tell me I'm so much rougher than you've ever known. Pinpoint my failures and please spell them out to me. I've been itching to collect them for the case I've been building against myself.
Do anything, but please, resist the urge to soothe me.

I've stopped biting my tongue but I swear I'm going to fix that leaky faucet and its slow acrid drip; it just wasn't always like this.

Home; I fear that to have any other soul help in defining it for me would also run the risk of then having it carelessly unsettled. So I'll push familiar from my mind and despise the warmth that tears so tenderly at my ever lone resolve.

Comfort, you must know you terrify me.