i write poems

an abandoned house loves the fresh air
blowing the dried leaves across the peeling linoleum.

my face is the decor, grey and splintered,
looming above the mantle.

the fire is no longer there.

thick dust holds to the embers
remembering when they were warm.

only ghosts live in the creaking noises,
voices speaking frightening phrases.

there is never peace among the rooms.
behind each door reveals a new insanity.

i hide in my bed, a sanctuary,
somewhere in the middle of the chaos,
where i feel that i can't harm myself.
i make the covers a straitjacket.
they hold me down.