Things break
Things break in this house.
I dig through scattered piles where once everything had its place.
The walls echo back shouts,
And I’ve begun to hear my own now.
Cracked.
Damaged.
Repairs go unfinished,
I do not ask anymore.
The bed knows the outline of my form.
A small handful of pills,
Poisons man-made,
Is swallowed,
When morning sets dreams to rest.
Before I can sleep.
This house breaks.
—m.c.s









