I Don't Love You Anymore

Echoes slithered up the staircase.

Formless serpents emerging from the crawlspace.

Dissolving through cracks, gaps, and voids within the walls,

my bedroom was invisibly overrun with sound that could crawl.

My sacred place, a primitive realm where dreams swelter from lucidity,

was burned alive by multiple voices drenched in emotional humidity.

Returning to consciousness, vibrating apparitions peeled back my blankets.

Taking me by the hand, my thoughts were consumed by a ravenous blankness.

Trembling palm to stoic handle, the white door in front of me opened.

Wood moaned at my disturbance, yet words were still being spoken.

Bitten in each ankle from two separate serpents, I collapsed onto

the top step and listened to the conversation between my parents.

My mother wept, lingering in fleeting memories meant to be forevermore.

My watershed burst, tipping me into understanding that we were

no longer going to be a family of four. I tried to disappear,

like a distant voice within the floor, yet I was solidified by the words,

I don’t love you anymore.