Spackle and fresh paint,
But the holes in the walls are still there,
Like the holes in my heart are still here.
I have learned to take your fist
And kiss it with my nose.
Will I miss your “tough love” when you finally go?
Spirits ripped from small walking corpses,
This house is filled with ghosts.
I’m so ******* tired of waking with a scream in my throat.
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 12:16 PM UTC
Spackle and fresh paint,
But the holes in the walls are still there,
Like the holes in my heart are still here.
I have learned to take your fist
And kiss it with my nose.
Will I miss your “tough love” when you finally go?
Spirits ripped from small walking corpses,
This house is filled with ghosts.
I’m so ******* tired of waking with a scream in my throat.
A true story.
Request permission to use this poem