Dear wall,

(footnote: this is for a small series I am writing)


Dear wall,
It's a good thing you are completely fixable.
A quick jog down to the hardware store, a few hours spent smoothing your surface, and no one will ever tell the difference.
But I will.

When my skin sunk deep inside you, past the plaster, past the padding, I felt an emptiness.
All I ever wanted was something to grasp at, to yank at, to crudely snatch and tear at.
To replace my own insides. But I guess you can't fill yourself with another's lack.
You were my last hope.
Everything around me has failed, no matter how many times I attempted to glue it back together.
I just needed connectivity.

I put the photo back in its frame.
I put the shelf against your off-white surface.
I repaired the glass of the window.
I kept covering everything up until it was unnoticeable to anyone. But me.

Five months ago, my smile was genuine.
Five months ago, my blood only flowed within my veins and arteries.
Five months ago, my memories were intact.

I won't kill for this,
the vessel.