Poetry

The House.

The windows are broken and the stairs creak.
The walls paint was peeling off everyday.
She was a home to a boy that never cared.
He had all the tools sitting in the closest but he used to say that they didn't work.
She got tired and tried to fix the broken pieces.
He said she messes up everything.
It must be true because with bloody hands and a ugly shade of blue on her face you can say, she tripped.
She makes the bed and climbs in bed with her demons.
You can catch them sticking fingers in her brain.
Rearranging the thoughts.
Spelling out the words, I am okay. I am wrong.
Manipulating the way she walks and talks.
The way she sings and dances.
The way she walks away from you.
The way she takes this house back.
Takes her soul back.
Takes everything she ever needed back.