Walking into the Front Door

June 9, 2016

Walking into the front door

My grin tones to grey

Glowing cheeks now matte.

Walking into the front door I limp with utter exhaustion

A feeling I wish was endless.

Walking into the front door I put my bags down,

They seem to be the only thing holding me still.

The floor beneath me retracts, and my stability is lost with them.

Walking into the front door my knees wobble.

Teeth chattering till they’re blunt.

Walking into the front door I step into a room.

A room that caresses my cries for help, with gentle hands.

Sour fumes grasp my throat until even the silence is hard to hear.

Walking into the front door a glass rests on the shrinking counter.

Peering inside, its violet blood stares back.

Pleading for crisp air it leaves dragged marks on the rim.

Walking into the front door my eyes veer to a blackened bottle.

Shards pierce my bloodshot eyes.

I sigh, I sigh with a polluted breath that fogs the dark glass.

Dew condenses on its surface; and thickens, the way my skin has.

Walking into the front door his dark eyes gape into mine.

So cold they freeze veins as solid as the rim of the glass his lips rest upon.

Sip by sip gulp by gulp the man I once knew disappears.

Walking into the front door his excuses hiss in my ears.

He says its my medicine.

But for every pill popped every bottle swallowed his fists ball tighter.

His pigment deepens to scarlet and his eyes dim to someone I know all too well.

Walking into the front door worthless echoes in a hollow room.

Telling myself I’m crazy, there’s even a quiver in my own voice.

Walking into the front door I lay alone.

Eyes and rosy cheeks chilled; Sticky with salt water.

Dreaming one day when the handcuffs will be let loose.

I look down and its red marks still wrap my wrists,

Gasping for a single breath of sanity.

With a simple pull of my sleeve their whispers are smothered.

Walking out the front door my bags hold me down.

Walking out the front door my neck is no longer pressed against the drywall.

Walking out the front door my grin begins to be vibrant with color again.

Something wrong with this poem?

Replies are closed for this poem.

See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.

Comments (0)

No comments yet. Be the first to share your thoughts.