ATTIC
My body is a temple, a six feet story building that came with its very own attic.
The bleak room hangs up in the sky,
The grey dust harmless to anything that lives in black paint.
Who lied to us that we all trample upon tartarus?
Look into my eyes and enter the labyrinth.
My neurons have rusted away into cobwebs,
My memories have been cased away in battered cardboard boxes,
The light and dark, concealed in the cluttered clusterfuck of my cranium.
I told her she could trust me.
I have many roles and selves within the ash coloured confines.
Today I’m an archaeologist, discovering all my old thoughts, now fossilised.
Today I’m a janitor, clearing out old objects
But spring cleaning doesn’t come in the cold winter.
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I could medicate but I keep my chimney shut.
This is not an abandoned room, it’s a room for the abandoned.
The items are claustrophobic, every now and then they try to find a way to slip out into the open.
A garage sale never to be had, is every retention to retain.
Today, I’m a hoarder.
I told her she could trust me.
I told her she could trust me.
The shadows move, all I wanted was someone to confirm that they’re nothing but silhouettes.
To Lie to me that the wisps inked onto the wall are just pesky spiders.
To visit the visitors who have overstayed their welcome
And tell them it’s not a guest room.
So now why does she live here too?
I told her she could trust me.
~ ATTIC. An oeuvre by Saros Grey
