Our story was written
in the empty cracks of our broken home.
Scribbled
in a million strokes,
symbols and signs.
Thousands of languages flew
from our wasted pen tips
and we could feel the ink drip from the ceiling like acid rain.
Soaked in the blood
from our pointless thoughts,
we attempted to feel.
We attempted to understand.

But our home had become Babble
and the bible burned our fingertips.

And they waited.
Waited for me to become more sane,
more acceptable.
They waited for me to decipher the sins
I had carved into my bedroom walls
for the last seventeen years.
But even they had no real shape or form.
Simply black marks
left from the paint on my bitten nails..

And so our tower crumbled beneath us.
And our pens kept pouring down.
And our story continued to write itself.

If only we had learned to read.