I told the floorboard too much and now it creaks differently

Every morning i wake up to pray for my parents to fall asleep again so i can gather my pieces scattered around the house in peace, the ones I've been looking for since i was seventeen.

I wait till the night crawls through the walls, stitching silence into my ribs, and i step out of my room into what they call home. It smells like my father's numbness, and hums my mother’s glass sharp words.  

I watch the memory of the three of us in the same room of the house peeling like an old wallpaper in the corner of the walls. And the forgotten ones living through my fingertips on the surfaces i touch.

My father no longer looks at me. so i can't read his expressions anymore, It makes me think I'm losing my vision, But in reality I'm losing him more and more. I'm losing him to my silence, to his distance and to our fading bond.

i'm too scared to look at my mother, 'cause her old words are still plastered on my skin, there's no more place left for the new ones. but i don't stop her because, Love, in our house, always came wearing thorns.

I know her life bled on vanished blank pages when she had me in her womb, so i let her bleed on my skin through her words, hoping It'll cross out the pain i tattooed on her soul.

i wish the living room would reek of cinnamon tea along with the small three ceramic tea cups we don't use anymore, So that i wouldn’t have to peel my brain layers to hear the clicking of them wrapped with my father's laughter again.

But my home pretends to be still air now And Sound needs medium to travel through and so does my memories now because My skin is too thin a medium for all that to be carried alone

images from pinterest