Murder House

She was a young girl, say the sophomore high school textbooks

On a creaky old wooden desk in the utmost left upstairs bedroom;

A wise girl too, say the strewn index cards and notes

On the black soft carpet; and a musical and artistic girl too,

Says the cello with a cracked cranium.

And the art station set with every artistic instrument ever created

On the floor below a wide-wedged whistling window;

But not a girl for much friends, says the dead, grave-silent iPhone.

 

Her parents lived with her, say the papered-over house walls;

And the mother was expecting, says the baby crib in the unfinished vacant bedroom.

Addiction-laden was she, say the coiled, ashy cigarette bud

On the bland ashtray and the black vintage lighter with a white skull on it.

She always wanted no interactions, says the pair of headphones laying on the bed;

In the Tim Burton-esque vase, standing out amongst the other partially dead red roses.

Bad people did bad things here, wept the unknown corpse-filled premises.

 

She was too young and innocent, say the pain-filled tears of her parents;

She should've fought through, says the thick noose;

The voices of the dead got to her, say the numerous pill bottles.

She tried to run away from the demons, say the pair of combat boots upon her feet;

But they never left her, says the black leather jacket upon her shoulders.

She was strong, echoed the booming voice of the murder house tour guide

On the streets as he tarnishes the name of the suicidal for the paranormal-seekers.

She was strong but she could only take so much, this is her story, says her spirit as it remained in the house.

This poem is about: 
Our world

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