There is a certain kind of
quiet comfort in this
like walking into your childhood home
forcing open the door and seeing
curtains through the boards
on the windows
blocks and toys where the
rat shit is
in all the corners
fingering torn and crumpled wallpaper
and seeing the growth lines instead of
faded ferns
and apple blossoms
breathing in the beauty of
mold and rot
and meatloaf
chocolate cake
and sunscreen
collapsing onto your puke-stain bed
wrapping up in a comforter made of
cobwebs and superhero powers
taking the last sip of water from the rusty can
on the nightstand
saying goodnight and blowing
your pretty little brains
through the wall.