I see a little house on the hill
and children’s names scribbled across the walls.
Their memories long forgotten,
but our story has just begun.
The crayon starting to flake away
as you pull farther from me. I see the pain
in your eyes, and can only imagine
the trouble I caused you. The faint echo
of a child’s laughter taunts me as I think of you.
Your face grows with disgust as you look at me.
My façade is starting to fade away. My scars
and cuts are visible, and you don’t understand.
Your words reassure me that I am a good person,
but you say you are just busy. I never understood
that line. You know the typical it isn’t you it is me.
But I love all of your imperfections, and think that you only
deserve the best. But our story will just end up
scribbled across an abandoned wall.