Walls
The walls, they stand so clean
So polished and pristine.
Shiny pictures of figurative images
That make you feel better as you pass by them.
Perfect colors that match the tapestry,
Strong and solid…
They were made to hide.
Your dirt and theirs,
And God only knows whose else.
The walls have seen it all—
The sins you hide, ignore, and organize in your butter knife drawer.
So perfectly polished,
The perfect reflection that shines back at you when you smile and clench your teeth.
The walls have ears, and they hear the echoes that ricochet off them,
Like an empty museum, where your whispers are still reminiscent of an inappropriate voice.
The sounds of silent cries and silent screams you bury in your pillow,
But also the ones you bury inside.
No one can see those.
They must compete with the blind.
The walls become your box,
That you decorate with a big red bow—
The velvet kind,
Rimmed in wire,
The kind that molds so perfectly into that final touch on top.
No one expects the box is empty,
Much like your expectations and promises,
That are always left broken.
What can be done for these walls?
Their transgressions run so deep.
Blood runs down them,
Staining every crack and crevice it touches.
Their minds are broken,
So broken that even a mosaic artist couldn’t make art.
Some say burn it down—
Only the fire and ashes could make it right.
Some say flip it, paint it a new shade of blue,
The kind that blood can’t stain.
But the truth is…
These walls are me and you.