I see you in your four walls
why aren't they caving in the way mine always do
why aren't you desperately forcing them up, making your arms black and blue
I see you in your warm halls
your favourite people too
you look comfortable
the people also do
your warm halls are painted an agonising shade of violet,
they look just like my bruises
the walls are electric with the faces of ecstasy
the love and compassion
the way people are meant to be
who are those people?
what do they do?
do you make them breakfast in bed? do they do the same for you?
your walls are a scrapbook
they are a symphony
of the good times

I want my walls to look like yours

~ T.T