Paradise Cove

All these words, so many words, but they have all been told, have all been written already and better in rows of shelves and eternity. Demons arrange themselves comfortably on your furniture; they fiddle recklessly with your sensitive decorations and stretch their clammy fingers to your skin, and burying yourself in that bath tub will not get their smell off your body. I don't want to die; I just don't want to live and it echoes through your mind even with the music turned up so loud. Like staring into the sun to sneeze, you create playlists to push buttons in your interior but you don't know where you want them to lead. They make your voice tremble.

This apartment is losing its shimmer. I go through it looking only at things that can go, that will go, when the bags get packed. I detach myself from the comfort of Home, from the beauty of streets known, of people loved. The music makes me dizzy. We are born screaming, but I appear to die in silence, withering. I can feign surprise, but this was happening all along and I always knew it. What sounds like victory rarely seems it, in daylight.