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"baseboards" poems
2 years, 5 months, 19 days. That's the last time a man Looked me in my eyes And told me He loved me. Nearly one thousand days have passed Since someone looked at me Like I was his whole world. And now I'm at the point Where I wonder if I'll be alone Forever, Not like the cliches, The woman who chooses a career over a family, Or the crazed lady who clings to her cats... No, just a girl Growing into a young woman Who doesn't even remember What it feels like to have someone Love her. Not sure if I've really ever even been loved, At least not like it happens in the movies. I've continued to pine hard, Chasing the affection of conflicted souls Who never bother to appreciate me, Those cliched types who are "Too damaged" to really love someone. Sometimes I wonder If I'm gonna be able to accept love If I finally find it, My fragmented soul having grown An allergy to kind gestures, Compliments, Or anything that actually might be deemed Indicative of affection. Slowly sinking down to the baseboards, Rotted and gnarled roots Clinging deep to the underground, My body dissolved into an anterior realm of Cynicism As I grasp the realities of my own Unrequited love, My yearning to demand more, Tied up and twisted with my Fear to stop settling And actually obtain "better." 2 years, 5 months, 19 days. I'm just hoping it doesn't take me As long To look at the Golden brown eyes that I See in the mirror and tell me I love me Enough to not care who Else might.
0
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 12:58 AM UTC
megb42290
Reflection
2 years, 5 months, 19 days. That's the last time a man Looked me in my eyes And told me He loved me. Nearly one thousand days have passed Since someone looked at me Like I was his whole world. And now I'm at the point Where I wonder if I'll be alone Forever, Not like the cliches, The woman who chooses a career over a family, Or the crazed lady who clings to her cats... No, just a girl Growing into a young woman Who doesn't even remember What it feels like to have someone Love her. Not sure if I've really ever even been loved, At least not like it happens in the movies. I've continued to pine hard, Chasing the affection of conflicted souls Who never bother to appreciate me, Those cliched types who are "Too damaged" to really love someone. Sometimes I wonder If I'm gonna be able to accept love If I finally find it, My fragmented soul having grown An allergy to kind gestures, Compliments, Or anything that actually might be deemed Indicative of affection. Slowly sinking down to the baseboards, Rotted and gnarled roots Clinging deep to the underground, My body dissolved into an anterior realm of Cynicism As I grasp the realities of my own Unrequited love, My yearning to demand more, Tied up and twisted with my Fear to stop settling And actually obtain "better." 2 years, 5 months, 19 days. I'm just hoping it doesn't take me As long To look at the Golden brown eyes that I See in the mirror and tell me I love me Enough to not care who Else might.
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55
I planted flowers   Fixed the floor Worked for hours   Painted the door Re-grouted the tile   Sowed some seeds Rested a while   Then pulled the weeds Painted the halls   The carpet is new Washed the walls   And baseboards too Removed the clutter   granite counters were bought Replaced the gutter     'Cause the old ones were shot I stand back and see   the results of our work mumbling softly, Gee   You're a stupid **** Shiny and new   The house is a show Prepared for a view   By people we don't know Our home's at it's best   And everyone can tell it So now we can rest   And the realtor can sell it!
0
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
russell-william-johnson
Prepared for a View
I planted flowers   Fixed the floor Worked for hours   Painted the door Re-grouted the tile   Sowed some seeds Rested a while   Then pulled the weeds Painted the halls   The carpet is new Washed the walls   And baseboards too Removed the clutter   granite counters were bought Replaced the gutter     'Cause the old ones were shot I stand back and see   the results of our work mumbling softly, Gee   You're a stupid **** Shiny and new   The house is a show Prepared for a view   By people we don't know Our home's at it's best   And everyone can tell it So now we can rest   And the realtor can sell it!
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28
The setting of traps has always seemed like a tacit endorsement of the mice. Acknowledgement. Validation. Admission of failings as a homeowner – (cracked baseboards or an unsealed gap in the door.) We are usually responsible for our own infestations, after all. The relationship with the mice is codified “you are vermin, I am not. I will **** You will die.” Thus the mice are transfigured, Christ-like. Frozen in fear, frozen in time, laid bare on a sticky, chemical altar of sacrifice. Saviors giving their lives so that we may preserve those unwanted crumbs in the vacant space between the couch and loveseat where the vacuum won’t reach.
0
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 8:24 AM UTC
BusbarDancer
Gluetrap Stigmata
The setting of traps has always seemed like a tacit endorsement of the mice. Acknowledgement. Validation. Admission of failings as a homeowner – (cracked baseboards or an unsealed gap in the door.) We are usually responsible for our own infestations, after all. The relationship with the mice is codified “you are vermin, I am not. I will **** You will die.” Thus the mice are transfigured, Christ-like. Frozen in fear, frozen in time, laid bare on a sticky, chemical altar of sacrifice. Saviors giving their lives so that we may preserve those unwanted crumbs in the vacant space between the couch and loveseat where the vacuum won’t reach.
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29
Love is blind but please, watch my back - I can think of no death worse than a demise brought upon myself from being too lost in your eyes. I was starving and trembling in your wake as though you'd locked me in your basement (and I would've fettered myself to your baseboards if you told me to); how could I not get chills the size of mountains on my spine when the wind was blowing your rusty ribs like wrought iron gates? I spent many a night wondering if your heart could weather the storm. I spent even more time listening to the ticking of my clock until it started to sound like you, and I bet no one told you that my heart will simply beat like a metronome on your time until the conductor waves his baton. On some Wednesdays, records will skip and mock me like you do. On this day, there will be cataclysms, and they will look just like you.
0
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
nurserycrimes
On this day, there will be cataclysms.
Love is blind but please, watch my back - I can think of no death worse than a demise brought upon myself from being too lost in your eyes. I was starving and trembling in your wake as though you'd locked me in your basement (and I would've fettered myself to your baseboards if you told me to); how could I not get chills the size of mountains on my spine when the wind was blowing your rusty ribs like wrought iron gates? I spent many a night wondering if your heart could weather the storm. I spent even more time listening to the ticking of my clock until it started to sound like you, and I bet no one told you that my heart will simply beat like a metronome on your time until the conductor waves his baton. On some Wednesdays, records will skip and mock me like you do. On this day, there will be cataclysms, and they will look just like you.
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1
I hate haircuts calling and asking if they can take a walk in trying to decipher the woman's thick accent going into the store empty desolate a man behind the counter looking up lazily from his magazine his monotone voice asking if I have an appointment he tells me to sit in the chair asks what I "plan to do" "with life?" "no, with your hair" because right now my hair is more important than my existence I hate having him touch my hair and the faces he makes at the split ends I hate his fingers brushing against my cheek and seeing the Hot Cheeto evidence on his thumb and forefinger Ellen is on one TV Arthur is on the other a little Chinese girl running around the store asking for her phone phone?! she can't be older than 4 and she is asking for HER phone the man doing my hair gives it to her I look at his paper license at his station memorize the spelling of his name look at the party streamers on the walls the broken baseboards the edges of the wall that the paint couldn't reach I hate as he tries to make conversation asking where I go to school what my plans are for the weekend monotone monotone monotone looking at my reflection in the mirror not looking at him cutting my hair I notice the grease on my nose how poorly I filled in my eyebrows I get sick of my reflection and look back at the baseboards finally he is done he blows the hot air of the dryer in my face I cringe he shakes out the apron and I look at the floor I am on the floor my DNA everywhere I pay and he spends 15 minutes looking for change touching my hair as I leave touching it in the car touching it at dinner I hate haircuts
0
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 6:34 PM UTC
jocelyn-jezycki
Haircuts
I hate haircuts calling and asking if they can take a walk in trying to decipher the woman's thick accent going into the store empty desolate a man behind the counter looking up lazily from his magazine his monotone voice asking if I have an appointment he tells me to sit in the chair asks what I "plan to do" "with life?" "no, with your hair" because right now my hair is more important than my existence I hate having him touch my hair and the faces he makes at the split ends I hate his fingers brushing against my cheek and seeing the Hot Cheeto evidence on his thumb and forefinger Ellen is on one TV Arthur is on the other a little Chinese girl running around the store asking for her phone phone?! she can't be older than 4 and she is asking for HER phone the man doing my hair gives it to her I look at his paper license at his station memorize the spelling of his name look at the party streamers on the walls the broken baseboards the edges of the wall that the paint couldn't reach I hate as he tries to make conversation asking where I go to school what my plans are for the weekend monotone monotone monotone looking at my reflection in the mirror not looking at him cutting my hair I notice the grease on my nose how poorly I filled in my eyebrows I get sick of my reflection and look back at the baseboards finally he is done he blows the hot air of the dryer in my face I cringe he shakes out the apron and I look at the floor I am on the floor my DNA everywhere I pay and he spends 15 minutes looking for change touching my hair as I leave touching it in the car touching it at dinner I hate haircuts
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58
I never understood what people meant when they say you can make a home out of a person. I never understood what people meant when they say you can make a home out of a person until the day his smile began to look like the welcome mat to his eyes, and his fingers running through my hair felt like they've never belonged anywhere else. I've written about love before him.   I've written about hands on my skin and lips whispering the sweetest of words into my ear. I've written about tongues that ran down my neck like honey. I've written poems describing the motions of falling in love; comparing it to storms, and then comparing it to a summer day... and then comparing it to pain. I've written poems about April turning to June and winter turning to spring; but I've never had a favorite poem of mine. I've never had a favorite month or a favorite season or a favorite sound or even a place that felt like home.   But now I do. We wake up to the sun slipping through the shades of his window; it's routine. Time doesn't exist between him and I. I turn to him, forcing my eyes open so they can trace the line of his jaw, the curvature of his lips, the frailness of his eyes slowly awakening to meet mine. At this moment, I've found the one place that's home; and it isn't made of bricks and baseboards. Home is curled hair, deep brown eyes, and a crooked smile.  Home is the hand that holds mine. Home is his voice when he tells me he loves me. I thank July for bringing me love. I'm thankful for the goosebumps he leaves on the surface of my skin. I thank the sound of his laugh for restoring the life in a part of me I thought was dying. I've never written about love before him. I've written about hands that have touched me just to take parts of me with them when they leave. I've written about the motions of losing myself in someone who destroyed the most innocent pieces of me. Love has never been so hopeful, so consistent, so pure. This is my favorite poem. Home has soft eyes.
0
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 2:02 AM UTC
bleedingpages
You
I never understood what people meant when they say you can make a home out of a person. I never understood what people meant when they say you can make a home out of a person until the day his smile began to look like the welcome mat to his eyes, and his fingers running through my hair felt like they've never belonged anywhere else. I've written about love before him.   I've written about hands on my skin and lips whispering the sweetest of words into my ear. I've written about tongues that ran down my neck like honey. I've written poems describing the motions of falling in love; comparing it to storms, and then comparing it to a summer day... and then comparing it to pain. I've written poems about April turning to June and winter turning to spring; but I've never had a favorite poem of mine. I've never had a favorite month or a favorite season or a favorite sound or even a place that felt like home.   But now I do. We wake up to the sun slipping through the shades of his window; it's routine. Time doesn't exist between him and I. I turn to him, forcing my eyes open so they can trace the line of his jaw, the curvature of his lips, the frailness of his eyes slowly awakening to meet mine. At this moment, I've found the one place that's home; and it isn't made of bricks and baseboards. Home is curled hair, deep brown eyes, and a crooked smile.  Home is the hand that holds mine. Home is his voice when he tells me he loves me. I thank July for bringing me love. I'm thankful for the goosebumps he leaves on the surface of my skin. I thank the sound of his laugh for restoring the life in a part of me I thought was dying. I've never written about love before him. I've written about hands that have touched me just to take parts of me with them when they leave. I've written about the motions of losing myself in someone who destroyed the most innocent pieces of me. Love has never been so hopeful, so consistent, so pure. This is my favorite poem. Home has soft eyes.
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21
~ Channels change and minutes crawl Depression sets the evening tone Baseboards dream along the hall As I sit here all alone Hard is but my easy chair Heavy eyes, a weeping tear Someone ***** the anchors share Communities are filled with fear Shadows dance in lightening flash Storms they rage on either side Floods of sorrow, endings crash A wonder I’d just rather hide Bad news blaring all around Every station sets the page Perfect hair and smiles found Reading prompters from the stage How can they just sit and grin Stack their papers nice and neat As the world explodes again People living in the street Hurricanes destroying hope Jets are falling from the skies Another bust, a ton of dope Politicians spewing lies Mother’s crying, sons are dead Shot while standing in the yard Tell us something good instead Can it be so very hard Take your cameras, microphones Find someone who’s doing right Kindness to another shown Tell us some good news tonight
0
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 7:23 PM UTC
jack-3
Good News????
~ Channels change and minutes crawl Depression sets the evening tone Baseboards dream along the hall As I sit here all alone Hard is but my easy chair Heavy eyes, a weeping tear Someone ***** the anchors share Communities are filled with fear Shadows dance in lightening flash Storms they rage on either side Floods of sorrow, endings crash A wonder I’d just rather hide Bad news blaring all around Every station sets the page Perfect hair and smiles found Reading prompters from the stage How can they just sit and grin Stack their papers nice and neat As the world explodes again People living in the street Hurricanes destroying hope Jets are falling from the skies Another bust, a ton of dope Politicians spewing lies Mother’s crying, sons are dead Shot while standing in the yard Tell us something good instead Can it be so very hard Take your cameras, microphones Find someone who’s doing right Kindness to another shown Tell us some good news tonight
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33
*I'm in a small living room with beige , sheet rocked walls and wood floors , contemporary artwork and a Vox amplifier A MacBook Air for keeping my diary , a ceiling fan forming a tune with a busy wall clock Dust is collecting on white painted baseboards , occasionally tumbling across the floor A front door secured twice plus two windows with venetian blinds , trinkets on shelves , the faint odor of pine , paper flowers , fragments of glass glued into containers Peripheral shadows are moving to and fro , images are stair stepping before me , heart racing , hands cannot find their home , memory racing mach one , telephone is nothing but noise , windows are for guarding against potential predators , flipping in synchronized repetition from Facebook to Outlook , from Hello Poetry to Musicians Friend Flying with one eye closed and hoping to eventually land* ...
0
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 10:31 AM UTC
randolph-l-wilson
10:15 a.m. Pharmaceutical Insanity .. Go for a ride with me .
*I'm in a small living room with beige , sheet rocked walls and wood floors , contemporary artwork and a Vox amplifier A MacBook Air for keeping my diary , a ceiling fan forming a tune with a busy wall clock Dust is collecting on white painted baseboards , occasionally tumbling across the floor A front door secured twice plus two windows with venetian blinds , trinkets on shelves , the faint odor of pine , paper flowers , fragments of glass glued into containers Peripheral shadows are moving to and fro , images are stair stepping before me , heart racing , hands cannot find their home , memory racing mach one , telephone is nothing but noise , windows are for guarding against potential predators , flipping in synchronized repetition from Facebook to Outlook , from Hello Poetry to Musicians Friend Flying with one eye closed and hoping to eventually land* ...
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15
Wars rage in between the static charge of our hatred. Look at us. For once, really look. Without thinking of what you can say next to hurt me most, look at the pain you've sewn into the boots of your children. So that when they walk out to face an apathetic world, the roots in their souls anchor them besides familiar creeks of pain. You've stolen from me that which cant be replaced. In this civil war you took my home. Lincoln said, a house divided cannot stand. And now I understand him. I can feel the baseboards curling up like dried paint. I can feel the windows fracturing inward, I can feel the fire lapping at the bars of a crumbling hearth. and I cant handle the evil you spill into my pillow cases anymore. Either change, or leave.
0
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 12:04 AM UTC
heather-3
Lincoln Said
Wars rage in between the static charge of our hatred. Look at us. For once, really look. Without thinking of what you can say next to hurt me most, look at the pain you've sewn into the boots of your children. So that when they walk out to face an apathetic world, the roots in their souls anchor them besides familiar creeks of pain. You've stolen from me that which cant be replaced. In this civil war you took my home. Lincoln said, a house divided cannot stand. And now I understand him. I can feel the baseboards curling up like dried paint. I can feel the windows fracturing inward, I can feel the fire lapping at the bars of a crumbling hearth. and I cant handle the evil you spill into my pillow cases anymore. Either change, or leave.
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17
The Party’s Over First Ray of Sunlight bangs on the front door, mop and bucket, green disinfectant, God knows she’s seen much worse.  Start with Giuliani broom his shriveled heart, pour bleach in the dank dark corners of his soul, load Newt onto a cart but come back for Christie, got to watch the back. Spray all the baseboards, maybe tent and bomb, bag up all the empties, filthy bottles of ignorance, butts of hate floating in the dregs. Open the curtains, let in the light, watch them scuttle for the drain, don a hazmat suit and head upstairs “The Donald” lolls in bed tangled up in stinking sheets of free media coverage, bedding soiled with a bladder full of lies and self-regard. The rest of us will slink out the back, Lord knows we enjoyed the bread and circus, we love a good carnival geek when he bites the heads off chickens. Sunlight is the best disinfectant but this may require gasoline and match.
0
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 10:01 AM UTC
dave-hardin
A bad poem for a bad man
The Party’s Over First Ray of Sunlight bangs on the front door, mop and bucket, green disinfectant, God knows she’s seen much worse.  Start with Giuliani broom his shriveled heart, pour bleach in the dank dark corners of his soul, load Newt onto a cart but come back for Christie, got to watch the back. Spray all the baseboards, maybe tent and bomb, bag up all the empties, filthy bottles of ignorance, butts of hate floating in the dregs. Open the curtains, let in the light, watch them scuttle for the drain, don a hazmat suit and head upstairs “The Donald” lolls in bed tangled up in stinking sheets of free media coverage, bedding soiled with a bladder full of lies and self-regard. The rest of us will slink out the back, Lord knows we enjoyed the bread and circus, we love a good carnival geek when he bites the heads off chickens. Sunlight is the best disinfectant but this may require gasoline and match.
Continue reading...
20
you told me that I resembled the battered, cracked baseboard that ran along your concrete room clearly suffering years of irrational abuse, and torment, a foundational error maybe, and chipped paint. i can't say that I disagree. but i can tell you that me and this baseboard share a lot in common you see we both started out with a simple purpose, sit still and do our job. granted, my foundational friend had it slightly easier, but only due to the that fact that you only kicked the baseboard accidentally; in a drunken stumble or a game of indoor soccer. I, on the other hand, was bruised and chipped away on purpose. whether i said the wrong thing, or laughed too long, or wore the dress that you didn't like-- as if it mattered you rattled my mangled bones with your lion heart and wanton ways, my lips, red raw and quivering you shook away any doubt of my worth and smiled at the inflicted galaxies on my skin you always saw yourself as a god you watched the rustic liquid trickle down my thighs from your own incisions on my already scarred hips and I almost felt beautiful you ripped apart my innocence and drowned out my screams with bad music with nasally singer and repetitive melodies I thought I at least deserved better than ****** music despite your absence I still sit in concrete rooms with cracked baseboards and caving ceilings because that's where I feel at home among the broken and the abandoned, among the walls that soaked up as many terror stories as me among irreparable damage and oddly enough i want to thank you because now i have a home within the vacancy
0
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 9:59 PM UTC
alyssa-nicole-farley
battered baseboard
you told me that I resembled the battered, cracked baseboard that ran along your concrete room clearly suffering years of irrational abuse, and torment, a foundational error maybe, and chipped paint. i can't say that I disagree. but i can tell you that me and this baseboard share a lot in common you see we both started out with a simple purpose, sit still and do our job. granted, my foundational friend had it slightly easier, but only due to the that fact that you only kicked the baseboard accidentally; in a drunken stumble or a game of indoor soccer. I, on the other hand, was bruised and chipped away on purpose. whether i said the wrong thing, or laughed too long, or wore the dress that you didn't like-- as if it mattered you rattled my mangled bones with your lion heart and wanton ways, my lips, red raw and quivering you shook away any doubt of my worth and smiled at the inflicted galaxies on my skin you always saw yourself as a god you watched the rustic liquid trickle down my thighs from your own incisions on my already scarred hips and I almost felt beautiful you ripped apart my innocence and drowned out my screams with bad music with nasally singer and repetitive melodies I thought I at least deserved better than ****** music despite your absence I still sit in concrete rooms with cracked baseboards and caving ceilings because that's where I feel at home among the broken and the abandoned, among the walls that soaked up as many terror stories as me among irreparable damage and oddly enough i want to thank you because now i have a home within the vacancy
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38
it takes awhile but the carpet depressions in your room, eventually fade even gravity cannot hold forever your markings they reside in curtain folds behind loose baseboards evidence exists in photographs, our shadows, locked, in silvered paper exhibits to what was and what we were .
0
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 9:32 AM UTC
jafarina
the forensics of downsizing
it takes awhile but the carpet depressions in your room, eventually fade even gravity cannot hold forever your markings they reside in curtain folds behind loose baseboards evidence exists in photographs, our shadows, locked, in silvered paper exhibits to what was and what we were .
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12
Baseboards lined with spiderwebs That shimmer in the slanted sun Next to worn, wooden chairs Feeling sturdier than ever Shelves and shelves of Outdated textbooks and encyclopedias Crinkly and brown and yellowed How many trees went into these pages This forest rearranged And defaced by movable type
0
Oct 5, 2020
Oct 5, 2020 at 5:02 PM UTC
whpayne
The Library 2
Baseboards lined with spiderwebs That shimmer in the slanted sun Next to worn, wooden chairs Feeling sturdier than ever Shelves and shelves of Outdated textbooks and encyclopedias Crinkly and brown and yellowed How many trees went into these pages This forest rearranged And defaced by movable type
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10
if you hoovered the world out of people and only the good hearts were left along the baseboards the sun shined only on good hearted ones, the rain cleansed the soil, of all their detritus the rainbow's end would alight on you and prove you are golden days would be parties then the stars would get in alignment shooting comets for you only, as signs that you are a good heart and that the world needs more just like you!
0
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 9:56 PM UTC
wordvango
answer to Lady RF
if you hoovered the world out of people and only the good hearts were left along the baseboards the sun shined only on good hearted ones, the rain cleansed the soil, of all their detritus the rainbow's end would alight on you and prove you are golden days would be parties then the stars would get in alignment shooting comets for you only, as signs that you are a good heart and that the world needs more just like you!
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15
it's when the dust gets as high as the baseboards or the rust corrodes the pipes and they start leaking I get buzy whip my swiffer sweeper and knock the crust off this apartment grab my pipe wrench and start tweaking on the leaky faucet it's when the electric gets cut off I can't see the dust or the water dripping is when I get lazy set still I don't care a **** bit
0
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 9:53 PM UTC
wordvango
I don't care
it's when the dust gets as high as the baseboards or the rust corrodes the pipes and they start leaking I get buzy whip my swiffer sweeper and knock the crust off this apartment grab my pipe wrench and start tweaking on the leaky faucet it's when the electric gets cut off I can't see the dust or the water dripping is when I get lazy set still I don't care a **** bit
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15
House is on the market today may be sold, maybe not hoping it gets a bidding war hoping the property, hot Floors are done, kitchen plumbed all the walls, new paint baseboards clean, and pristine a money pit, it ain't Thirty year roof, hardy plank one hundred percent of stone landscaped yard, was pretty hard and didn't do it, alone Replaced the doors, yes, all four portals to the outside, garage granite countertop, farm kitchen sink a worthwhile home montage C'mon by, and peruse a show of an older home take a walk, and see it through and maybe, call, your own
0
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 8:49 AM UTC
TemporalFugue
Homely Offers
House is on the market today may be sold, maybe not hoping it gets a bidding war hoping the property, hot Floors are done, kitchen plumbed all the walls, new paint baseboards clean, and pristine a money pit, it ain't Thirty year roof, hardy plank one hundred percent of stone landscaped yard, was pretty hard and didn't do it, alone Replaced the doors, yes, all four portals to the outside, garage granite countertop, farm kitchen sink a worthwhile home montage C'mon by, and peruse a show of an older home take a walk, and see it through and maybe, call, your own
Continue reading...
20
This new room does not hold me like the old one once did Lacking the cracks in the walls to count and memorize And the old children's stickers peeling up at the corners on the baseboards But it's mine, and I'm on my own just like I've always wanted (Right?) A cupboard, a fridge full Yet all of the food rots away like my insides As I'm laying in bed at night Fluttering my lids at every sound At every footstep Of a reminiscent spirit that clenches at my chest and pulls me back into this godforsaken bed Where I grasp aimlessly at dreams out of reach No longer dreading waking before the sun rises for work But relieved to leave the heaviness these blankets. People say I look good, I seem like I have my energy back Did you lose some weight? (yes) And words come pouring out of my mouth so quickly they trip over each other desperately (I am desperate) And I lie I tell my mom, I'm sorry I've been so busy When I haven't left this house leisurely in weeks And she can clearly see the dark concaves under my eyes. My mom gifts me food to take home And I have to deny Knowing I'll be unable to eat it Unable to fill this body so hollow And now so frail.
0
Dec 3, 2019
Dec 3, 2019 at 11:23 PM UTC
sleepyeyedbby
Moving Out
This new room does not hold me like the old one once did Lacking the cracks in the walls to count and memorize And the old children's stickers peeling up at the corners on the baseboards But it's mine, and I'm on my own just like I've always wanted (Right?) A cupboard, a fridge full Yet all of the food rots away like my insides As I'm laying in bed at night Fluttering my lids at every sound At every footstep Of a reminiscent spirit that clenches at my chest and pulls me back into this godforsaken bed Where I grasp aimlessly at dreams out of reach No longer dreading waking before the sun rises for work But relieved to leave the heaviness these blankets. People say I look good, I seem like I have my energy back Did you lose some weight? (yes) And words come pouring out of my mouth so quickly they trip over each other desperately (I am desperate) And I lie I tell my mom, I'm sorry I've been so busy When I haven't left this house leisurely in weeks And she can clearly see the dark concaves under my eyes. My mom gifts me food to take home And I have to deny Knowing I'll be unable to eat it Unable to fill this body so hollow And now so frail.
Continue reading...
28