The room I was born in.

Its on the walls

Covered by flowers,

Its on the ceiling

Hung by strings,

Its on the ground

And Buried beneath,

All the evidence

You would need.

Its here

I’m telling you

Why can’t you see.

Why don’t you believe.

That though I stand in this room void of things,

The things they had shot,

Constructed from bullet like syllables that formed grenade like words,

that tasted like poisonous sentences that eventually stopped me from leaving

This room, empty.