#roomsasmetaphor
I knew a girl —weathered by the kind of life that
doesn’t warn you before the storm. Still, she tried
to keep a _spring in her step_ — but smiled like cheap
paint on a fading wall, _peeling off, little by little,
every **** day_.
She told me: "_We don’t own enough to be claiming it all_."
She’d hold onto the hands of time like it owed her
something, clocking in for the kind of love that clocks
out as soon as it settles in your mind.
And I swear — _it was always the careless water she
feared the most_... the kind you drown in without
noticing —a pretty smile, a warm voice, the open
door that leads you straight to your own unraveling.
I watched her from that doorway — wondered which
room of herself she let people sit in.
Was it the __heart__ —that wicked room where love
rushes in faster than you can catch your breath?
Or the __soul__ — too expensive for lips that try
to bargain it down with sweet nothings?
Maybe it was the __skin__ —that kept aching for touch,
even when desire left bruises where tenderness
should have lived.
Or the __mind__ — God, the most attractive part of her,
modelling strength on a runway of thoughts that walked
out daily for the world to judge. And maybe the reason
her story broke me was because I saw myself in every
cracked wall she tried to paint over, and over again.
We are all just houses hoping someone might stay
long enough to know the rooms we rarely let them in.
Jul 7, 2025
Jul 7, 2025 at 2:05 PM UTC