Misguided with glazed eyes,
they gleam in an effort to encourage impulsiveness.
I no longer have a desire to be the windows inside of you.

Admiring a lavender sky,
sunsets continue to die,
plagued by the thought of
night creeping in again.

I am vulnerable to the pale moonlight.

You once told me, 'There's a cracked home that you carry inside of you.'
No longer am I the thoughts filling your head,
that I'm the cure to your sickness.

Isolated myself in heavy sheets of sadness,
suffocating-
in an uninvited guest room,
just some extra space.
A breeze persistently tugging,
the tattered curtains.

Someday, you'll understand-
I was never your home.
Never becoming a garden,
never a lonesome white gate.

Paint chips from my decaying bones,
from years of damage.
Been here before
a ghost to these creaking stairs.
Fixing everyone else's homes,
a loose floorboard bares secrets,
but I continue to keep things just to have something to hold.

Stairs cave,
with each step I take.

I end
as it begins;
your body becomes an earthquake,
the house crumbles,
words evolve into raspy whispers

Damage has been done,
marks are on the wall,
as demons claw.
They're ripping through your veins
as I feel the foundation in my fingertips.

The walls won't be here tomorrow,
no longer holding everyone's hands,
or breathe through these polluted lungs.

I've begun to feel a need to repent
and with every move I make,
my happiness is spent.