bursts

of rooms and things that fill them

the thoughts of it fill my head
so i cram more in instead
books and movies and music
are just art to distract me from yours

i glance at the sketch you left me and
i call it the devil in the person,
it reminds me of you
i make one thousand things and leave them all unfinished;
oh look! here's a cork from last summer
and a curtain from the day before
thread and a needle stained with blood—(i still have a scar from that one)—
i break glass on the bed
and try to forget all that you said

i revisit our lasts
and channel it all into something tangible,
my lines and lines of rambling poetry,
dedicated to you.
i don't think you deserve it but
that's not who it's for
i may not cry about you anymore,
but i will always burn for you

c, i called you once
you never did tell me whether or not you liked it
i guess i should've known then,
to let you figure it out on your own first.
i know that feelings are hard,
like wire too twisted to make straight again,
but you said you like me first,
so why am i the one feeling rejected?

i'm back to it now,
the filling of the room
there's paint swatches on the wall.
if i can't get you out of here,
i might as well make it a pleasant stay

love,
the landlady

these seem to be getting less and less thought out as i go, but oh well. pressing publish on this one is hard, since it's such a mess. i'm hoping the last few lines read as sinister or smth bc that's how i wanted it to feel. lmk what you think (i take any and all criticism) in a comment, vote if you liked it, and have a nice day/evening/night <3