Knock, knock, knock

I wonder if I will die here too

In the same home with the same chipped walls and the same slightly crooked chairs that

Occupy the corners of the living room.

Where the dark wood dining table has broken and chipped its corners, and the curry stained placemats seem to dust slowly

Where the bookshelves that touch the ceiling loom over the glass coffee table we placed in the center of the room to feel 

as if we have actually placed something of importance in this long empty boring old room. 

There is nothing beautiful about wasted potential; 

and trust me I would know as I feel the weight of that same burden. 

The same burden of the coffee table and the tall bookshelves and the chipped dining table and even the curry stained place mats. 

My fate seems to rest in the innocence of a childhood home and 

In the same horror of that home