The Rotten House

RDP Monday: BRACKISH

Unknown

It wasn’t the smell

it wasn’t the dust- gray and black with age

that clung to the walls,

with tiny teeth and maybe claws

that made me want to tear the old house down

with my bare hands.

 

It was the angry words

the vicious threats

that nested and hid in every single dark corner

waiting for the windows to shatter, for the doors to open

so that they could fly free and find another rotten house

to call home.

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