You mattered
and now you don’t.

It is a binary switch
here or there
unlike the lamp fan light burning
dim in my room that night until at 6am
the bed filled with limbs and lips and
eyes and fingers

Old wallpaper memory feels crusted over,
its edges faded with time and cooking oil
and sandman tear crystal sands.
There is nothing as unappealing
as half torn wallpaper
begging to be burnt away it
feels like a house no one has lived in
derelict and resentment spilled across the floors

and behind, or maybe under, a cleaner slate
sits, calm and eternal eggshell walls , and as usual
poetry redecorates the room with plainer skill
than 80s Bollywood tapestry, those
gaudy posters of ill-fated romance

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1 Response to Burn

  1. Pingback: A Witch Is Born | Kshyama's Attic

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