Lead into this home.
A wreck of a ruined ship,
Cast into a mold-encrusted shadow.
Into a broken maze of cat hair,
And children that leak filth into the kiddy pool.
Into a parasitic junk yard under the ground,
Where more vermin exist than one would imagine in the grave.
These white walls are stained with browning rain,
And the bloody razors in the sock drawer lay.
Unseen by the deity above the webbed ceiling.
Below, she’s giving up on herself.
She lies here, pleading for the fleas that crawl in her bed,
To devour her in sleep.
She lies here, wanting to make a change.
For escape from existence in a rotting grave.
For success, to live as a soul someday.
To cover the filth,
To paint the walls white.
To be numb of the real,
To try to survive.