i sit in the corner
looking at the walls
deciding that we are alike,
this house and i.
we both have history here
and walls that need tearing down.
the paint around me is peeling
curling at the edges
cracking and dry,
until it slowly falls
in a thousand twists and turns
until it lands in the dust.
and the colour underneath
is starting to show,
where the paint
can no longer hold fast
where it was once
bright and new.
like bark on a tree,
there is something strange
about being able to see
what is hiding
below the exterior,
out of sight.
but unlike bark,
the paint won’t grow back
and unlike trees
these walls will not grow
but simply crumble
little by little.
i wonder if anyone will remember
this old wooden house
a hundred years from now,
just like i wonder
who will remember
me.
and i quietly wait
with this abandoned house,
for someone to come
and paint new life into us,
but deep down i know
we will crumble instead.
