Peeling Paint.

A poem.

 

i sit in the corner

looking at the walls

deciding that we are alike,

this house and i.

we both have history here

and walls that need tearing down.

 

the paint around me is peeling

curling at the edges

cracking and dry,

until it slowly falls

in a thousand twists and turns

until it lands in the dust.

 

and the colour underneath

is starting to show,

where the paint

can no longer hold fast

where it was once

bright and new.

 

like bark on a tree,

there is something strange

about being able to see

what is hiding

below the exterior,

out of sight.

 

but unlike bark,

the paint won’t grow back

and unlike trees

these walls will not grow

but simply crumble

little by little.

 

i wonder if anyone will remember

this old wooden house

a hundred years from now,

just like i wonder

who will remember

me.

 

and i quietly wait

with this abandoned house,

for someone to come

and paint new life into us,

but deep down i know

we will crumble instead.