red

Unkempt bedding litters a cluttered
floor, covering each failed attempt
to express my inner frustrations upon
tiny blue lines. I am disheveled, my

matted hair is a spider's cobweb, I
smell of alcohol and regret. I fell in
love with another relapse longing to
feel something besides sadness for

more than a day. I used to pretend love
was something more than a fallacy, until
you played my heartstrings and broke
every last one. So I sit here and stew

at my thoughts clawing their way out of
my head, looking directly at the red wall
in front of me. I hated red now, not because
of blood, but the house that was painted red.

I twinge with depression, remembering bad
things that my body language rejected, but
you couldn't even read a book. I shed tears
for my innocence wishing I could shed my skin.

And I ponder: are coffins just for dead flesh,
or can insides be buried too?

Author's Note

Any criticism is great.