This Isn't a Home, It's a Morgue

 

Don’t laugh – you might wake her up. 

Keep it together, don’t tell her what’s the matter.

I hope you enjoy shouldering troubles alone 

because halfway through life, she can’t handle  

the pressures of being a seventeen year-old girl. 

This house is a morgue. 

We’re immune to grim things. 

And the steel tables don’t feel cold anymore. 

Nothing feels real anymore, except 

the stale jokes we use to clear 

the stale, dead air.

Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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