Home.

I am freezing. I stand outside in cold rain, on the doorstep. I think it's snowing now. The wind is cold and sharp. But I won't knock. I won't ring the doorbell. I won't ask to step inside where it's warm. I'll stay out in the cold.

Outside, I am bravely fighting the elements which cannot be defeated. The wind rips at the shingles; I patch them back on. The frost freezes the ground; I give what little body heat I have to the garden. The road ices over; I melt it with salt of my sweat. The walkway and driveway become chest-deep in snow; I shovel away.

Inside, the elements cannot touch me. Inside, it is warm and comfortable. But inside, I cannot fight. I cannot martyr. I cannot.

Someone stands at the door, barely creaked open, calling my name, begging for me to come inside. But I won't; I can't. How could I enjoy the comfort when outside, a storm ravages so fiercely against what I must protect? How could I sit comfortably, knowing a war is going on?

No, I cannot sit. I do not belong in the comforts of a home. These simple comforts tear apart my insides like poison. I will not survive such a life. An allergy. Do not bring me inside, lest I suffer an anaphylactic reaction, my life cut suddenly short.

Home is outside. My home. Let me fight to my death.