The Sins of a Man
I wanted to build a house with you.
We worked tirelessly, bound like glue.
I tried not to break every brick,
but something in my design made me sick.
I dismantled the house one mistake at a time.
The walls stood waiting.
Somewhere, the doorbell chimed.
I tore up the floorboards of your heart
like shame scraping the back of my throat,
led by a darkness I mistook for my own.
I loved that house,
but I was too selfish.
On the front porch,
my heart gave out.
I couldn’t afford the repairs.
I didn’t know what was broken,
and I lacked the courage
to put it up for sale.
I only hoped
you knew I still cared.
Sunlight fell
where the kitchen table used to stand.
Black water seeped
from the ruined sink.
Laughter lingered
inside the rotting frame.
Dust and cobwebs gathered
like the weight of what remained.
Mold climbed the bare wall
where our crooked pictures once hung.
The stairs creaked
like a conversation neither of us finished.
The television sat sun-bleached,
still waiting for a hand
that would never find the remote.
The coat rack clung
to a single nail.
The glue had dried and split.
It couldn’t hold a thing.
I wished I could rebuild
what died inside those walls.
I pressed six numbers
into the deadbolt,
missing the heavy ring
of brass keys.
The latch answered
with a mechanical click.
Inside,
the walls had never been marked.
A vault without an echo.
I dropped my coat
over a folding chair.
I warmed a single meal
with the only fork I owned.
Its polished steel reflected
three days of shadow
across my jaw.
I chewed without tasting,
swallowing
the silence between bites.
Fresh white paint
still burned my throat.
On the stairs,
no timber answered my steps—
only
the heavy thud
of a single boot.
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