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Poison House


She sits in her room with silence and the fading smell of knotty pine.
She is all grown up now, existing without understanding.
The walls breathe around her, slow and moaning.
It wafts through the rickety furnace with its warm voice, and pours over the old house that is stained of yesterday’s emotion.
Her slender elbow rests upon the wooden desk, she looks for solace, but age has sunken it’s silhouette as much as it has hers.
The kitchen is plagued with the shadow of memories, soiled dishes, green mold, and the smell of dusty orange peels.
The bed where they once slept is in the basement.
She won’t go there.
To the place where she woke to the right side.
The other now lies empty, a spiteful game of tarnished white linens and pillows that bleed in feathers.
She sits in her room, alone.
Muffled sounds rasp and furrow around her.
Floral wallpaper shreds at its corners and a scintilla of rust blemishes the ceiling.
The windows are dirty and they seep when it rains.
Her heart is heavy and weeps from his pain.

~B.H.~

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