Dusted keys

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I see it now. I can piece together every corner, and trace the floorboards which travel with my footsteps. I can see the banisters and feel the cold, empty windows. I remember the intimacy of my instrument, the smooth ivory keys now dusted with denial.

I do not wish to go back there. I do not wish to walk these halls, even when pulled in my slumber. I am not interested in the ghosts gathering in my joints. I do not look to the scar on my hand or think about the hallway racing beneath me, burning my skin raw. I do not wish to acknowledge this pain, I do not wish to validate it. I shrink beneath it. I shirk the pain I am allowed to hold.

But I cannot run from my dreams. I cannot escape the places that the mind takes me in the safety of my slumber. I am betrayed. And I am tired.

Fold me in, let me go limp and mourn for the childhood I never had, for this pain that swells beneath my ribs. Drape me across the alter and unleash the voice of my pain. Let me be free, never to return to these haunted halls. Let me rest.

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