The House We Live In
There’s a room filled with tears that sits in a building three blocks away from struggle. I get within inches of its front steps and clench my fist and increase the volume on my headphones to a quite uncomfortable level. Why is it that sad songs only make me cry when I’m not sad and stop me from crying when I am? I shut my eyes to try and fight it, but the fluid beats on the backs of my eyelids like a fugitive beats on a stranger’s door in a fleeing panic. Depression visits the kitchen or basement bathroom, that sinking feeling. Double or triple meaning, either way I’m having a hard time breathing. Why am I back in the same place? Again I misplaced my cool. Emotional déjà vu. Wait. Collect yourself and resurrect your stable so even horses at the rodeo couldn’t shake you. I remember when I used to be able to hold it together like staples. Through the door with hesitation overflowing and footsteps soaked with slowly going insane. Sunshine sneaks through the windows pain and touches your face as my gaze reached. Words slither across lips and glisten with lies as colorful as rainbows in thunderstorms. Every single sentence stronger than the previous. No limitations on the statutes of the last fight we had. Keys open doors but kisses and hugs open hearts. Each beat keeps the story of us like tweets in my news feed. Deep in thought but weak in start and strong in finish, left speechless. I know there’s no way to win it but when I’m in it I feel so invincible. One step closer to being apart, upset you and yet you still expect me to be that one wet shoulder. In order to get through this, we each have to own our own shit and not forget we all have baggage, a carry on and a couple checked. Get comfortable inside our self at humble depths and miles high, alone in the deserts of new mex and then the try shanghai crowds. All flawed humans with our walled exteriors built from bad experience bricks and shameful past mortar need to open our spirits like we were living for glass bottles. But we plan our escape and pillage and take for granted our slanted state of being. Leaning on each other till the last hours of existing. I get it. It’s not the most uplifting when you’re the raised bed holding up the person who misled or deceived. Never really knowing if they understand their misdeed. So, instead of sharing and talking and caring for each other when we’re hurting, our first reaction is always… to close the curtains.