Poetry archive from the mental hospital

Haunted house

I thought that you were just crossing my mind, but you seem to have built yourself a home.
Walls flimsy like my consciousness, but with roots of lead- spiralling down my throat. Inescapable melodies decorate the ceiling, dancing like wind chimes during an earthquake.
If I could erase your mangled shape from the mud of my mind, I would.
But we both know this vile world would never be so forgiving.
So, I will sleep on your porch and convince my skin that I'm in your arms.
I will wait by your window until you come to mine.
As time oozes, your portrait fades in reverse.
I miss the way the changing sky would dye your skin with a painful peony perfection.
I miss your glowing cinnamon touch and your hollow promises.
Inject me with a numbing brew
I am praying with my hands tied.