this house is as real as ungrown nails on the tips of my bony fingers
something is scratching from in between my lungs,
searching for the solace it deserves

I feel it wilting too.

the inexplainable feeling of touching the harsh corners and the yellow walls and the emptiness we will be filling with
 lavender in the place of sweat

I do not like this setting 
but like the ladies on the street who boast about the bruises between their thighs and call them battle scars,

my choices have always been grave