I'm dreading.

To pack everything,
from the place we used to call ours.

The empty boxes are staring back at me.

I can't bring myself to fill them.

I'm scanning the apartment that used to be ours..

I'm seeing our history repeating itself.

I somehow see your shadow from the kitchen,
and mine from the living room.

I hear your laughter when you mess up cooking..

And suddenly you're everywhere, and I'm paralyzed.

I can't move you into boxes, and I can't leave you.

Yet I need to leave you within this walls..

i complain about the wall between us
but i am the one who built it

I imagine a therapist office
as they are lavished in on tv shows
and they're not really like that;
instead of a cozy dimly lit office
it's a white wall maze.

As my doctors
are not private ones
and they surely disclose
all about me
to the insurance company.

I can't help, but twiddle my thumbs
and wonder about the
cries for help
that linger on these paisley painted
dry walls--
snickered with inpersonal
portraits of strangers;
that probably wish
they hung in one of those
elegant, brash, and luxurious offices on tv.

Or maybe instead
the paintings longingly wish
to be dead as well--
instead of being
in this subservient storehouse
that is standing in for an therapist office.

Getting up from another stand-in
this rash beast of dull coloured dust;
calling it a chair would insinuate people
are supposed to sit there,
but I assume
it's true purpose is for the ill-ful
to find something uglier than life itself.  

Leaving through another betrayal
that existence couldn't be more lame
is a doorway with the most faux of all possible doors;
it's screaming "nobody ever cut down a tree to make this".

Slipping past another door (eye role)
I come to be in the same room,
but this space is two faultering steps to the left.  
And instead of dust everywhere
it's a mobbish moss melancholy
that distastefully lingers
in my personal office's air.

Splattered on the wall
Lay layers of lusterless paint
That crawl under your skin small
bumps with a faint taint
of a soft yellow haul
that drags you down to a feint
filled with reality

Don't you hate when games b̶̨̨̧̜̪̱̝̬͔̙̃́͂̽́͊̿̕ͅͅȓ̴̘̭͇̼̹͙̼͍̭̣̃͗͂̾̕e̵̢̧͔͖̺̩̣͍͉̼̩̮̱͛̐̓͝ͅà̸̙̔­̝k̶̖̥̓̄̃̑͂̊̅͘̕ the fourth wall