Packrat

The handle burns my fingers, I curse, wrap my hand in my shirt and kick the door open

Who the FUCK

gets a metal door

in South Carofuckinglina?

The fire-hot handle interlocks with the knob of a poorly placed coat closet, I wrestle it free with misaligned angst

Who built

this place-

Pablo fuckin’ Picasso?

I scan the house, some sense of duty or obligation suffocates the grooves of my brain, God there’s shit everywhere, it’s all trash, I’m calling it now

Corridors of crap-

Graveyard of coulda,

shoulda, woulda.

Post-war children, they say ‘just in case’, but case never comes, never did, never will

No pictures hung-

No, of course

THAT’D be too much.

The bedrooms, bathroom, basement, dusty and covered with mold, bet I could make an asbestos angel in the attic, maybe I can fix this, maybe there’s hope, maybe I can save our souls

The hell-?

Are the doors

fucking MELTING?

No no no no no no what kind of sick Stephen King bullshit is this

I swear to God I’m not like them, I actually like to dust the blades of fans, I would never use plastic this long, I loved Marie Kondo’s book, you’re never supposed to use plastic that long, WHERE ARE THE GODDAMN TRASH BAGS, I swear I can stop it I can make it better GODDAMN IT DON’T LEAVE ME HERE, THIS DOES NOT SPARK JOY

IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DIFFERENT FOR ME