I want out I need out I HAVE TO GET OUT No.

I want out.
Every waking moment spent here is a bitter torture.  It's serene, but I've never hated anything more than the sight of my own reflection in that bathroom mirror, making eggs on that stove, sitting in that chair while outside the sun sails and the clouds float and birds paddle in that goddamn birdbath.
Is this beauty?  Fuck no.
This is my life on hold, my brain on drugs, my mind on self-destruct as I wake up to a ceiling that isn't mine in a room that doesn't scream, 'THIS IS WHO I AM AND HOW I CHOOSE TO LIVE.'  Less than half of this stuff belongs to me.
Get me out, I plead to a god I no longer believe in--to employers, to landlords, to anyone who looks at me and says, 'I can give you this, if you do that.'  I would whore this broken body and buy a plane ticket to anywhere rather than face the prospect of never leaving this wooden box.
Let me go, I rage at my family, but they're not holding me down.
Stop asking me!  Keep your fucking hands out of my business!  NO I DON'T WANT TO!
These people, who care about me, and just want me to fly.
They're not so much wardens of my prison as fellow-inmates, but they choose to be here, whereas the longer I stay the less I feel I can leave.  I'm suffocating.  I'd contemplate unspeakable violence against myself, but for the fact that I can just do that without even trying.  My body hemorrhages without my having to prompt it.  Who needs pain to verify what we feel?
I hate that I hate what I hate, and what I hate the most is the guilt.  I shouldn't hate my mother for her concern, but she has always failed to connect with me (neither of us are really trying anymore, which is to say, I'm not trying).  And I hate myself for that, because she doesn't deserve what I wish upon her on the daily.  But I hate myself for hating myself, because the more I erase myself emotionally, the less I can feel without fighting an uphill battle against a truly implacable opponent.
My fucking consciousness.
This house, these four walls.  They don't do what I do to myself and everyone else, but they make it so easy.  I can settle in to a safe routine, physically comfortable but mentally I'm rattling the bars and cursing anything that moves, let me out, let me OUT, LET me OUT!
If I can't save myself, then who the fuck will?

If I ask for help.  If I just.  If I say.  If I pick up the phone and call.  If I do.  If I don't.
When finishing a thought becomes the highlight of the day.
When the best days are the ones where.
When seeing my father is.
When I.

I feel most alive when I'm not where I am, surfing websites and living proxy fantasies.  When I come back home, I am at a loss.  I find solace in sleeping, or masturbating, but that's another fantasy and it's never as satisfying as I hope it will be.  Bad habits follow me like a lost dog, compelling me to throw them a bone, share a little love, and it sickens me but I do it anyway.  But the worst part?  I don't even care enough to diversify my sins.  Why put in the effort?
This somber cage is cluttered enough as it is.
When I was at my lowest, barely strong enough to walk, they brought me here to rest.  I sat up in my chair alone for days and stared at the ceiling, willing myself to get stronger, become healthy again, to seize those days and wring them dry of worth.  But it never happened because I sat there and did nothing, and now it's too much of a chore again not to.

I want out so I can find a new hole to crawl into and wait to die.
I need out because this place of pain drags at me.
I have to get out.