My heart is buried somewhere beneath my mattress and my mind is hung by a noose from the blades of my ceiling fan.

I’m tired of pressing my ears against my bed sheets only to hear the echo of your voice.

I hate the thought of confusing the scent of your perfume with the dead roses I have placed along my mantel

My room is a mausoleum
Housing the body of a girl
No one could love

You’re a murderer

And my room is a tomb
It’s a crypt for the broken soul
Of a martyr