home. Flower petals dried, dead leafs crunching,

tile floors filthy, smelly, sticky, with dull coloured

furniture, faded and lifeless, all of the blood has

dried up. The house had it's funeral and the

creaking of the floorboards are its final breaths,

the aching walls with their death moans. It is rotting,

the scent of cigarettes and mould, corpse like, the

wooden walls with their lifeless eyes. What once

brought joy, excitement and comfort now leaves me

without nostalgia, only an aching chest and a heavy

head, I know where every item lays, every box and

every vase, everything is in its final resting place.

A house trapped in time, unchanged,

even my old room is tiny, like the curled up body of

a spider, like the shrunken form of dried up fruit.