In this house of cracks and gaps,  I find myself falling apart.

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In this house of cracks and gaps, I find myself falling apart. The smell of rust fills the air, As bile rushes to my throat. But this is my home — My father’s words stain the walls with mold, And my mother’s tears fill the air with suffering. I lay on the floor seeking But the ceiling, defiled with all my longings, stares at me with anger so heavy

I turn my gaze.

And this my home, is wailing and crying As I walk up to the room that is my cage And my solitude.

The window view is so desolate,

And it matches the state of my soul.

If I could escape where would I even go,

I would still always be me,

I’m a jail cell I can’t escape.

My lungs are filled with poison,

And every breath I take sends pins and needles to my hands and legs.

My favourite hobby is drawing pictures of my unlived life on my skin,

And the scars make maps to places I’ll never go.

In this house of cracks and gaps,

I find myself falling apart.