Hallways

If my body was a house
my mind would be constructed of hallways
scarcely lit through blinded windows
dust intermittently dancing past slivers of light

I would fill the walls with expressions of my life
paintings composed in palettes of thought
    frames of reference observed at night
    when before shutting my eyes
    searching for tangible proof
    that at my epicenter
    I did not allow bitterness to prevail

A record that some days
my insides did not feel
            they had been created by the hand
            of a holly architect
but by children at play with matches

Some days I wanted to burn this house down
some days I did

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