The carcass of my parents dead love is here.
The crucifixion of my innocence, in my bedroom with the bright yellow walls like childish optimism
But it was never really my bedroom.
It is plagued with my mother's unending distrust and compulsive tendencies.
There are countless screams after screams locked airtight in these halls like the reverberations never completely left but just grew so minuscule that we began mistaking them for sounds the house makes in the night.
There are tears here, so many tears that they've spawned mold under the carpet
mold in the corners of the bathroom
mold around the dark spots of our hearts that tears are born from.
There are some smiles here.
They are birds that sit atop the gigantic sill of the window, meant to frame the chandelier for passers by to admire, but we can not reach them, realistically.
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