two bowls, six plates, tupperware, silverware, underwear, a skillet with eggs burnt to its surface, three weeks worth of clothes: something always has to give, and the first thing is usually my floor.
i tell everyone who comes over, this is what my brain would look like if it took up physical space, dead flies included. valuable material objects sacrificed to the tile floors of a center city basement bedroom; i put my bare feet on the same surface every morning and it is cold to the touch. i climb back in to bed.
i keep my secrets in my craigslist dresser but i am too scared to watch these words rot away at the bottom of a drawer.
"anna," footsteps, door closes, more footsteps, quiet, -
“it smells like something is decaying in our walls.”
— water damage (via fakethewayiholdyou)