something to fill this empty room,
besides the scatters of something started;
a work in progress, never finished.
something besides the
dull smells of fake fragrances and a thousand candles,
spent and past in brazen attempts at aromatherapy.
something to accompany the
ceiling stared at, night after night,
besides the spider and moth that live near the light.
another human, perhaps,
if there were room, at least. another set of thoughts,
besides ones own, weighing heavy in the walls.
a monster under this bed,
give us something real to fear, make me leave,
make me feel, make me scream.
something to fill this empty room,
besides everything still in it. not empty at all,
just worn and torn, bored, full,
empty.