not edgar allan poe

tidy

I'm still learning to sleep on my own;
but as nights go on, all I am learning is to stare into the dark.

The eyes stare back, the figure to which they belong somehow makes itself blacker than black.
A form absorbing all the sins of this house.

Rain can wash away the earth, the blood spilled on its surface;
but we're too afraid to be clean.
To face our sins.
Storms beat at the places we hide, trying to tell us to come out to be cleansed.

Inside the sins stay.
Inside the house, inside the mind, inside the heart.
We think we can rid of them by cleaning the inside but theres too much.

Wrath and Pride's energy lies inside the walls, waiting to be unleashed again.
Whispering into our ears at night.
The dominance of it in his mind collects, leaking into the floors and into our hearts.

The rest are scattered into us hastily.
They are all afraid of Wrath.
Its whispering makes them wriggle inside, trying to drown out the urges.

Your whispering in my ear isn't whispering.
I have learned to create distance from your reality, your screaming into the walls.
Your slamming doors, your throwing, your hits.

The cleansing begins with leaving you in the rain.