Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Old House

I happened to pass my old house this morning, and my eyes were dry, not like the last time I was within her walls, because I had met you since I left her, so my eyes had a full schedule of staring with adoration, and no time to weep.

She called out, as I walked right by, singing melodies of memories that I never liked the sound of. I had wasted many nights, arguing with fate, wishing as I pulled cards and wondering when I would see something that could keep my eyes dry, for just a second, just a second without cruel lessons and stepping stones for better endings.

The walls wailed as I walked away, haunted and cursed, craving to keep me, an inmate of her imprecation. I had wasted half my life. Whole summers, whole souls that I tried to wipe clean, so they could start over, but I was never sure if they had survived, or if it was just comforting to imagine that they had. I held my holy water to my chest as I walked. I saw my soul, on the other side of the street, smiling in survival, and I walked.

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