Ghost In My Own Home

Every time that I arrive home, it seems that something has changed, but I never know exactly what it is. Is the paint chipping again? Was that wine stain always there? Was the carpet always this shade of brown? Is this even the right number on the house? Every time I open the door, it's like another person's home. Maybe I've broken in as a ghost, forever wandering an everchanging home, always searching for my own, finding some sort of petty reason to say this house isn't my house.

I feel so out of place as if I'm the unwelcome guest and the house is whispering to itself, creaking to the stairs and aching to the walls, "She doesn't belong here." I dread feeling their mumbles as soon as I arrive and subtly as I fall asleep. My name is signed on the lease, but maybe the ink fell through, how long has it been? Maybe someone else's name is carved into the skeletal frame behind these walls.