The echoes thundering out my bedroom window haven’t left since the day I unraveled.
The ghosts in the walls maintain their movements as if locked in place.
They’re sneaking under the sheets and burying under the carpet,
concealed in a fortress of dust.
I tried to stamp them out but they break and attach,
track on my footsteps from the hospital to that place six feet under the ground.
They’re telling stories of you and me and all of those endless hypotheticals,
delving into the theoretical of what binds an eyesight to another;
the same questions that drain your heart and impose inaction when common sense begs motion.
If only you weren’t so poetic, I would have burned you all down if I could,
stripping planks and fabric to exterminate the thought.
But that grip you keep on my shoulder is a comfort every time I feel its pinch.
Maintain that rigid control with your handcuffs.
I’m bound and bound to always be bound by a repeating drama.
It’s enough to render me sleepless,
throwing myself into old photographs that hurt more than help.
I can’t tell anymore if I’m my own antagonist for remembering each regret they portray
and holding on to it, weighing my eyelids down.
If anyone asks, I’m not going out.
If anyone asks, I’m still at the start.
If you’re wandering on the old street and those neighborhood haunts,
I’m still at home.
I’m listening to static in my eardrums and watching my alarm clock march forward.
Time is progressing but my life is falling backward.
If anyone asks, I never left the room.
( ❤ Mitch)