6:55 PM — saturday october 16th
i found a dead bird on the porch today. small, fragile, its feathers sticking together in clumps. i poked it with a stick. it didn’t move. i thought about burying it, but i didn’t. the rain will take care of it. or maybe the worms.
sometimes i think the house is swallowing me. it’s quiet, but it’s not. it hums, like it’s breathing. i hear things in the walls. scratching, whispering. i don’t know if it’s in my head or if the house is alive. or dead. does it matter?
i sit by the window and watch the sky turn dark. the sun dies every night, but no one seems to care. i think i like it. the dark is quieter, softer. less to look at, less to remember.
YOU ARE READING
sombre
Poetrynever-ending‚ never still. the fear‚ like thorns‚ does swarm‚ a fractured mind‚ forever ill. ﹛ scraps from the void ﹜
