The blood on my hand is now graffiti on the floor; the tattoos are red, skin stained with gore. There’s butterfly on my lips, sore eyes staring at the wrists.
Limping across the hall, I cover the wounds with tape; the music sounds morbid as I watch out the window, clinging onto the wall. There are photos hanging on these cracked walls. Waters leak from the crevices wetting the pictures, distorting the faces, tarnishing the images. The photos that dried lost their voices, the stories that once spread smiles gave out silent cries.
I can feel the sun burning through the pores of my skin, lightening up my fingernails. There’s euphoria in the air; I fall into slumber, death is what I wear.
The walls won’t heal, the crevices couldn’t be sealed. There’s nobody home; it’s no longer one.