I am an abandoned building,
Battered, dingy and shabby,
Haunted by ghosts of past,
Hatred and agony.
Stinking of angst and suffering.

A house so bedraggled,
That mere movement of earth,
Would crumble me into myriad debris.

The hearth of this house,
Is covered with stubborn soot,
And burnt mantle.
Broken fences,
And half burnt woods,
Dampened by perpetual tears.
Yet it has remained cold,
For endless time.

My dressing room,
Is filled with mirrors,
Like those in your town's local fair,
With distorted reflections,
Somewhere too thin,
Somewhere too fat
Somewhere too tall,
Somewhere too short,
Somewhere you look like a clown
And somewhere it's just ugly.
My dressing room,
Is filled with mirrors,
Except the one,
Which can reflect the walls,
As they already are.

The roof is a forbidden place,
Where monsters are hiding,
In every aisle of the maze.

The kitchen is the place,
Where my desires are butchered,
Dreams are beheaded,
Cooked in poison,
And served with garnished joys.
And the sink is flooded,
With prescription pills,
And unceasing dripping is too loud.

Every time when I think of dying
I etch my walls so deep,
That my  bed sheet is drenched in crimson.

My body has been a shelter,
To pernicious refugees,
And cruel soldiers wounded,
In their own battlefields,
Here they nursed their bleeding hearts,
With everything they could find,
In corners of my smile,
In cabinet of my affection,
Tearing me down piece by piece,
Taking away possessions,
And never looking back,
And now I am all bare and empty.

I am house which is inhabitable,
I want to be fixed,
I want to be repainted,
I want to get rid of the monsters,
I want to be a home,
You would return to.