you knock on the door
28 times, exactly
because im not used to letting people in,
so i try and put off opening the door for as long as i possibly can.
but then the knocking becomes more insistent, louder, and more frequent in between silence,
so i open up.
the door creaks open,
and the powdery dust of a spider's web showers over you,
you see, this part of my mind is often left alone.
it makes you sneeze, but that doesn't put you off; instead, it seems to intrigue you more.
you walk in, and your eyes widen slightly at the blatant blood - ink - dripping down the walls of the living room, dark crayon red pools of ideas flooding the floor
offering me a weak smile, you walk on over to my bedroom. i ruefully shake my head, 'big mistake'.
the bedroom is where i spend most of my time,
and sorry, there's no time,
and ah, maybe next time.
just work, work, work, until it's no longer considered unhealthy isolation.
the skeletons in my closet come tumbling out when you open it, a dry mass of bones and little bits of flesh of the all the people i've ever wronged,
(myself, myself, myself).
