When doors fly open,
staying wide for the neighbors
to murmur about the 3AM noise,
she sits there waiting to declare this bad day
as another notch in the wooden welcome sign.
He'd never lay a finger on her,
but he'd sure as hell break
the lock on the bathroom door.
Awkward drives, with silent treatments
are better than
the quiet hints of her splinters,
the faults that are responsible
for stinging his left thumb.
These days are cake walks
compared to the bad days on romantic tv shows she watches at night;
when she stares blankly at the screen
with crusted eyes.
About the Creator
Ti Ana
Writing: surreal poetry, random thoughts, and more.
Insta: tianaishere
Wanna tell me something? Email [email protected]
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