My poor, poor living room
That witnesses and has to absorb the negative energy of countless strained conversations And sharp words spat through gritted teeth.
The poor, poor frames too, that rocked with the force
That slamming doors generates.
I theorize these quarters were built of Chinese drywall,
Because existing here always seems to make my eyes sting, and I can never breathe properly.
I wouldn't be surprised if our home collapsed to the ground one day because it just couldn't take it anymore.
I would turn green at the sight of the rubble, wishing my life was just as impermanent.
Then I, too, would fall and grasp my knees and wet the soil with stingy tears, hoping I could make something sprout
From the turmoil.
YOU ARE READING
Euphemism
Poetry"I believe that maturity isn't dependent on age, But rather the severity of the trials the mind and heart have undergone." Growing up comes with so many challenges that can be uncomfortable and confusing. We're all thrown into the ocean and expec...
