I have found someone who doesn’t ask me to speak lesser-
My bed, the cupboards and my poor elaborate dresser;
Tied to their fate of listening to my rambling rants,
About my silly little life filled with unfulfilled wants,
They squeak and groan under the weight of my stress
And creak and moan loudly their surmounting distress.
But every time a new one joins my living space
I know it’s his guilt over loving another pretty face.
Sometimes I imagine that from one Mother came all this furniture,
And just like me she yearns deeply to put all her pieces together.
I don’t speak to the walls, though they have ears.
I don’t trust them to contain all that they might hear.
If these walls could get hold of a captive audience,
I am sure they’d be dying to break their silence.
They know every gory detail of my melancholic heart
And all the reasons my marriage is falling apart.
I resent them their silent scrutiny as they stand in judgement.
They seem so alive – these beings of bricks and cement.
Like sentries guarding my prison, ensuring no escape,
No matter how distorted my mind or my physical shape.
It’s not like I didn’t try to befriend my stony wardens;
But they are too comfortably numb to grant pardon.
Written for Mish’s prompt on dVerse.