Wear Shadows Wait (The House Keeps Receipts)

Last night, I tried to fall asleep, but suddenly, I heard creaks from the floorboard. In my half-sleep state, I closed my eyes just in time to hear the faintest hint of laughter. Time distorted, so I’m unsure if this came before or after. I picked up my phone and hit the button to record—I guess it’s time to explore. Keeping my footsteps light, I try to see, but in the dark, I lose my sight. Not sure if I should run or if I should prepare to fight. Time felt like an illusion; am I wandering through the early morning or the dead of night? With shaking breaths, I brace myself—something here isn’t right. I stand beside the wall, allowing it to assist in holding me upright. In my head, a whispered prayer loops, playing on repeat as I fight. Is this the moment? Is this where I meet my demise? Is this where I accept defeat? In the stillness of the air, all I can feel is the pounding drum of my heartbeat. I close my eyes, hold my breath, then count to three—throwing myself forward at full speed. Around the corner, I half expect my eyes and another pair to meet. Or maybe a half-assed wave, a smirk, some twisted game from a creep. But all I find is a couch, draped in a plain white sheet. Taking a moment to catch my breath, I hear it again—the sound of softly padding feet. I stand stiff as a board, my eyes adjusting as I force another visual sweep. Shaking with adrenaline, I remind myself—don’t move, don’t make a peep. With each passing second, the air thickens, the heat turning up degree by degree. More seconds pass me by—a decision has to be made, no more time to ask why. With uncertain steps, I turn the corner again, but this time, I’m met with my own sigh. Everything is still, the silence pressing in, thick enough to swallow the room whole. And then I notice the old clock on the wall—its hands stuck at the very second I stepped inside. It’s at this moment that I have to choose—to fight or to hide. The questions posed may have had parameters that were set too high. But I steady my breath, plant my feet—whatever this is, I refuse to abide. If the clock wants to hold me hostage, then I’ll be the one to decide. Maybe the question was never fight or flight, but to comply or to defy. Years passing me by with shadows dancing along the walls—ghosts I can no longer deny. Energy trapped in a room from history that passed in the blink of a sleepy eye, And in this realization, the house went quiet after the soft whisper of unspoken goodbyes.

I remember the times I was alone running through the forest, the moon my only friend Using the shadows to hide myself away at the sound of soft crunch of approaching footsteps Looking up, I take a deep breath to steady myself—searching the sky for the North Star Lost myself along the trail—instead of counting steps I started to count the scars Months of running alone with nothing but the branches and the leaves Making friends with the critters scurrying along with the unexpected breeze I don’t remember what caused me to scream; I’ve since blocked out what brought me to my knees The moments come back to me, but only with enough time to really notice the sudden freeze A shock to my system—an unavoidable kind of dramatic defeat Waiting for the heavy red curtains to close before realizing they were only sheets Counting each drop of blood that escaped the fresh wounds—how much can one person bleed? Questions that still linger—an echo that wakes me up out of the deepest of sleeps Standing at the edge of the rocks looking down at the drop—at least a few hundred feet Was it days, months, years of time that have somehow managed to disappear Lines that constantly shifted underfoot, keeping each future step just a little too unclear Waiting for the sun to shine down, begging for a little bit of warmth—a lingering heat The ticking of the clock and the slow deterioration of fragile and aging skin The truth is buried—pieces of the story remain, but the entirety will never be told again Forgotten dialogue between actors throwing out false accusations meant to condemn The ever-present lingering of a karmic lesson masquerading as a false twin Listening, again, to the echoes—the only sound remaining is the howling of the wind Watching as the branches waver—the silent threat: will it break or will it bend? Trapped inside of this scene until the break of morning, the ticks of the clock still offend I take a deep breath to steady myself—staring at hundreds of pages I once penned I close my eyes and start to type the final words; the keys clacking—“The End”

All we are is a collection of fabrics woven tightly together—the creation of a tapestry. A collection of fragmented pasts bound together—a cluttered anthology. With pages still waiting to be read and voices still begging to, for once, be heard. A binding agreement, carefully written, but they seem to have left out the conditions and terms. A journey that was somehow both repulsive, yet apprehensively inescapable. The more time that passes, the more I realize which moments still remain inexplicable. Each chapter viewed through fresh eyes—counting on each finger how many times I tried. Truths that aren’t spoken, because I never found a place for them to hide. How many stops were made along the way? How many passengers decided they couldn’t stay? How many mistakes were ones that had to be made? Which version of myself survived and is standing here today? Staring into the mirror, I pause and decide to hold my breath. Behind my eyes, there’s a hidden map of every statement that I’ve ever said. Every thought, every memory, every hope and dream, locked in a room inside my head. The answers to questions unasked, tangled in the ever-fraying thread. Life would be easier if we were able to forget the past and keep looking straight ahead. The chime of the clock reverberates through the bathroom walls, bringing my eyes back into focus—it dawns on me that I’ve missed a call. An unknown caller—I think I forgot to save it under a name. The voice on the other line seems to echo, setting my brain aflame, reminding me that sometimes life isn’t about the game; it’s more about how it’s framed, and each day a page gets added—nothing in life is consistent but change.

Bad things happen. To bad people Bad thing happen. To good people Bad things. Happen.

Manic pixie dream girl Is at it yet again Run off to the woods With notebook and pen Her hair frolicking in the wind Not concerned with foe vs friend Just searching for meaning A thesis to the continuous ends Manic pixie dream girl Wakes from a dream where time bends Cold sweats and hands that shake— Lost words floating inside her head The sun rises as she plants a smile on her face It’s the start to a brand new day Manic pixie dream girl She’s at it yet again Heart on her sleeve Thoughts in her hand Stating the obvious With laughter unplanned At least the night wasn’t bland Manic pixie dream girl Already had a plan Leaving before midnight Her hand holding her bag Creating a safe distance Before the moment could land Manic pixie dream girl Mastered the art of an escape plan Learning the fastest routes And the lay of closed-off lands Decisions made in simple ways Like blindly throwing darts at a map Manic pixie dream girl Somehow she’s leaving yet again Her bags in the trunk Throwing all of her caution to the wind She left a note on the table Her chicken scratch handwritten goodbye But kept the notebook and the pen

My first poems were carved into a composition notebook while tears slid down my face Sitting cross-legged in the corner of a dark room on a four-poster bed, fingers stained with ink The words poured out faster than I could fully consider or think—line after line after line A collection of moments I no longer recall, all told in chaotically selected slant rhyme Thousands of words that eventually blended together until they were hard to decipher Crafting sentences until the dark of night turned orange, almost rust-colored Sleep was something that always escaped through the window I kept cracked when I was younger Sentences strung together, sounding as if there were a truth that needed to be uncovered Sleep lingered, offering its hand while I scribbled away under the flashlight Unsure of the time—back when things were analog—but it had to be after midnight Lost inside the landscape I was carefully crafting, details added until they almost clashed Adding periods, commas, edited grammar, words crossed out with bright red slashes Inspiration only ever came to me in small, strategically calculated flashes The flashlight dimmed as I stayed bent over the page, rereading each uneven line My hand began to cramp somewhere past legibility, but I kept writing beyond the warning sign The notebook filled unevenly, ink thinning in places where I paused too long to decide A clutter of half-formed sentences, revisions layered until the meaning bent and multiplied Margins narrowed slowly as I learned how much space each thought insisted that it needed Certain lines rewritten repeatedly, others left untouched exactly as they were completed Outside the window the sky conceded night, bleaching stars into a diluted gray I closed the book when I ran out of room and not when I ran out of words to say

Another year that came and went Words spoken and money spent Highway hypnosis - trees that blend Bass thumping - neither the start nor the end I made a wish but I think I forgot to hit send Some losses are just costume wearing wins Bridges burned that you can’t always mend Avoiding spots on the map that hold red pins The past reverberates like half rolled windows fighting wind Sentences kept hidden are now sentences carefully trimmed The truth is still the truth— no way for us to rescind Some storylines leave an inescapable, unexplainable imprint Eventually coming to the realization that there weren’t missing clues or hints Just a million images stored inside of your head as if they were in print Another year archived in the glovebox dust, windows half-rolled, carrying echoes I trust. The highway keeps secrets I’ll never outrun, each mile a reminder the story’s not done.