(There is an outside chance that I am posting an awful lot now, while I have free time, to make up for all the days I missed in January.
Also, as both the title and the tritina itself indicate, I was not feeling in the best of moods when I wrote this poem. CW: lots of talk of death and morbid imagery.)
(You know, when I’m not being lovey-dovey, I really do dive headfirst into frankly fucked-up imagery, don’t I…?)
Living in a broken house, with broken skin, and broken
Memories strewn upon the walls, it engenders, breathes
A sense of ennui; there is no life left in here, only
What remains after. Cigarette-stained, car-exhaust fumed eternity
Waits in the wings, for us to fall down the stairs, our skulls broken
And smashed upon the carpet, so that death, like thieves
In the night, may take us. Don’t cry; merely breathe
In the scent of evening flowers rotting as they slowly
Slither into a house that can never be un-broken.
It steals your breath, the house built solely of broken families and people.