Thin walls


The dark is melting, poured

into this thin-walled room.

I may not want to talk to

real people…but I do want

to talk about something real.

The thin walls are good

listeners, after all.

They know how Plath’s

words “Daddy, daddy,

you bastard, I’m through,”

sound like a hammered nail

in the coffin of a spectral patriarch.

And that’s all that needs to be

said. Because maybe they’ll

pass on the message to that

man who is most certainly dead.


3 thoughts on “Thin walls”

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