Dust Never Settles

I wake up, and the first thing I smell is fucking mold. It's all over the ceiling, spreading like some nasty ass disease. Dust is everywhere, falling from the ceiling like this place is coughing itself to death. The whole trailer leans like it's trying to fall apart faster, walls splitting, everything just fucked up...

The bathroom? A goddamn disaster. The ceiling caved in months ago, and now it's just open to the mess above. Roaches crawl everywhere like they own the place. I kill one, ten more show up.
Outside is no fucking better. The front lawn is packed with broken-down pieces of shit my dad won't get rid of. Rusted cars, trucks with no tires, and the fucking RV full of rat shit That blocks my view of the sun. That piece of shit is gonna kill us all.
...And then there's my dad. The king of this crumbling empire. He's always in his damn recliner, like it's some kind of throne. He sits there, glued to Newsmax, like the world outside doesn't exist. Beer in one hand, his stupid ass spit cup in the other. The brown streaks running down the side of it make me want to puke. He barely moves, barely talks. Just stares at that damn TV while the trailer falls apart around him.
I can feel the weight of it all pressing down on me. dust, mold, rot, all of it. It's like the place is alive, feeding off everything I can't fix. And my dad? He doesn't care. He caused this mess, let it rot right down to the bones, and now he just sits there, watching the world burn on TV, oblivious to the wreckage he's left behind.
Some nights, I dream about the whole trailer collapsing in on itself. Walls leaning until they snap, the ceiling falling down like a judgment. And maybe it wouldn't even matter. Maybe he'd still be sitting there, surrounded by rubble, spitting tobacco into his cup and cracking open another beer.

It's not a life. It's a prison. And every day, I wonder how much longer I can survive in this place before it swallows me whole.