Meraki

camouflage

the hollow creaks in my household scare me, and i cry out for help,
but only get an echo of a woman
with tristesse down to her broken core.

the sink has been broken for days now, and i haven't been able to wash the dirt on my skin;

there are stains that are starting to rot. his kisses have left scars, his touch has left burn marks. my fingers are lifeless; i would amputate them: but i need them to keep my sanity.

one of the stairs broke off when i stepped into them; my leg got stuck inside for an hour. i couldn't get myself out. i am falling apart as much as my home is.

help me. help me. help me.

i cannot breathe. the covers and my forgotten dreams are suffocating me. breathe, stop resisting. i let the child in me settle back in an empty nest. she wonders what went wrong, and starts setting up pictures of

a ballet dancer; a violin; a smiling face. i do not know how to tell her that those belong to a deceased soul.

let yourself get up, she says. guide yourself to the light.

so, that day: i fixed the sink and moved out.