these walls.

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If these walls could talk, surely, they’d scream

So loud that this whole house would shake

And there I’d sit,

restlessly, anxiously

On the bed I’d grown into and out of,

Under the same pictures that have since faded from the daily protruding sunlight

This room where I spent so many nights laying awake

The blinds ripped open to showcase the streetlights beneath

Desperately searching for some semblance of worthiness, of purpose,

A reason, a meaning

Watching the cracks grow apart from floor to ceiling,

Waiting –

for the roof to collapse under the weight

A troubled home that was built only to break

The drywall falls until there’s nothing,

Nothing but dust,

the cloudy smoke – dissipates  

The last thing you’ll ever taste.


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