as i walked into the cold and eerie room
the empty-minded people stared at the tv
not noticing that a visitor has arrived.
i walk toward my grandfather
who doesn't recognize me anymore,
instead he calls me by his daughters name.
i notice a strange lady walking toward me
and i stop in my tracks.
she holds my elbow, brings her face toward my ear
and whispers "the devils in the chesterfield"
as she points toward the couch that is being occupied,
and then continues to walk away as if nothing happened.
i feel a chill down my spine as i greet my grandfather.
the room became haunted the more i visited.

i try to see passed the ***** glass that blocks my eyes
i end up focusing on the tiny, scattered particles
the smear of someone else's face oils
reminds me that at one moment
someone cared enough to kiss me
i use my shirt and the warmth of my breath
to wipe away the smudged memories
i can see again
but when my vision becomes blurred again
it wont be because of you

as you sit and stare at the wall
thinking about your past
and the people you have let down,
you stand out the most.
you've stared at empty eyes for too long.
you've cried a thousand too many times.
you've eaten too many heartbreak cakes.
you never really found a footing
to propel yourself forward to land a career
or to create a white picket fence family.
but you found the bottom of bottles
and other people's beds.
you've experienced the trauma that
your mother won't discuss with you and
that your dad treats you differently for.

as you finally sit alone
in a place you call your home
decorated with vintage,
you begin to feel like life
has been waiting for you to accept these things
and allow them to shape who you are
meant to be.

all the past relationships,
loves,
the past flings,
and one night stands...
is it possible to apologize
to every single one
and explain that your past self
had no idea what she was doing
and if she could go back
she would have done everything
so much differently?
she wouldn't have hurt you,
cheated,
lied,
drank so much,
used you,
loved so hard
with nothing in return...
or do we just accept everything
we have done to ourselves
and to the strangers we once loved
and try to be better?

we write about the hurt,
the pain,
and the aches.
we never seem to write about
the thrills,
the excitement,
and the laughter.
it's like our life isn't valid
when we are happy
or content.
we don't write about
the mundane.
people don't care about
what gives us joy,
they only care about
the fears
and the traumas.
is that what creates a life,
a personality,
a human being?