Same Old Thing

Blooms on these four walls are damped with mold, and the woods beneath what once were flourishing leaves and canes will eventually find its way through with not one but too much hope for the world to notice; it’s never going to stay, and of all the efforts we’ve gathered were lessening and becoming nothing but invitations for sickness.

“It’s just a wallpaper” said a man whom I overly serve him with words that’ve been thrown around for generation and generation, which I never really get the meanings. His tantalizing thin lips now seem so dull and oily from yesterday’s leftover chips. I wanted to wipe it off but it’s too much of an affection, instead I look into his eyes and think of the too many times he pushed me against these rose wallpapers that we’ve bought for every existing cabinets and walls in this little house we call home.

Redundancy bores me and I’m too scared to tell him. His sweet caress doesn’t shiver me like it used to. I feel relieved as I started nibbling on my last piece of worthless veg. As the night light flicked on bright, giving him a signal it’s time he returns me with words that make me cringe every now and then, I hope that it won’t become as dull as his touch on my thighs. “I want to feel something” I finally let him know. He pushed me against a wall of deadhead roses, so I bit on his neck expecting some novelty, instead he moaned the same old words everyone throws around, and all I can think about is I should tell him ‘too much is never enough.’


© Jidapa Chang-in

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