There were once stickers here
ripped off, without mercy,
there were once crayon marks
painted over; off white.
There was once a nail-hole,
(Life Hack: Fill In Those Pesky Nail Holes With a Dab of White Toothpaste)
and that painting is in a box,
in a truck, going somewhere.
The scuff-marks from the dining chairs
might cost us our deposit,
but we can use a tennis ball to scrub at dinners past.
The dust that settled behind the books
are easily wiped away,
the drawer liner for the forks
peeled, folded, discarded.
The hundred-something trinkets that decorated the walls
rattle in a biscuit tin, damn screaming poltergeist,
and finally we threw away all those paper bags
saved for gifts we never gave, this house that never was.
"This was not a home," we say. "There lived no-one here."
40 notes
·
View notes
i never wanted you to leave.
six-word poem.
d.b.a
1K notes
·
View notes
I have never lived anywhere long enough to truly root myself, and maybe I'm too much of a coward to even try.
What is a childhood friend? My companions of a decade past have vanished to the wind, and I can't find you, and maybe that's my fault for not trying, harder, earlier.
Loss, though in the grand scale nothing, has nestled into my mere existence.
Grief becomes diluted over the course of seventeen years but I still ache, still crumble under the thousands of drops pelting my skin and sinking its way into my bones. Does just a single drop of blood not swirl in the water?
Friends of days past I promised my life to, where are you now? Teachers long gone, do you remember, the year 2013, when the grass was ever-sweet and colors vibrant?
But I dare not speak this out loud.
Selfish, selfish, I have always been selfish. Greedily taking in your joy and mirth and basking in the glory of our short shared existence. Such privilege has been afforded to me and yet I lie here and weep.
If I reached my hand out to the void, will there be anyone to reach back?
5 notes
·
View notes
writing poetry about yourself. you can do that
2 notes
·
View notes
just woke up from a nightmare where coach z had like. a striped tennis ball for a head. he was in the real world and i stabbed him seven times but he wouldn't die. artist rendition of The Menace
405 notes
·
View notes