Blurred Emotions - A Plethora Of Short Stories

Stone Angels

The kitchen floors are stained dark red

From a syrupy substance spilled out of my skin

And although they've been washed clean thrice over

I can pinpoint each drop of blood

The walls hear everything

From whispers and screams

To the slamming of a glass after too much vodka

But they don't speak up during times of suffering

The bathroom is flooded with vomit and tears

Replaying events from each year of my life

But it continues to smell like lavender

The four walls I call my own are cold and dark

Leaking memories of a child dancing lightly

Or sleepovers with mountains of sugar

Yet drifting to a paranoid teenager who can't sleep until it's light out

Can anybody see me?

Or am I living in this hell alone?