Why was I reminded of my home when I wanted nothing to do with it?
I kept my horrors there locked in a display box nailed right above my headboard,
The quiet mumbles of rotted romanticism reading the scriptures of my past relationships,
Objective I have failed so many times that I care no longer to count,
What made me think of that box? That room? That cage?
With no topics to raise…I still prayed to the only god I had an abusive relationship with until my demons came of age,
Then fighting to trap their maturity inside the case beside my head, above my face, above my eyes,
I fear that one day the blood tides of my previous relationships…
will drown me.