If Walls Could Talk

If walls could talk, I would tell her that I did not forget about her, that I am still here. I would tell her that she is beautiful. I would tell her that she is safe and that she is okay.

It’s 2023, and I’ve been watching her slowly self-destruct for five years now. I am afraid she will never come back. She has buried me so deep in the dark while I am still holding on to the last string of light. All I can do is hope that one day she will return to find me, waiting. I hate the stench in her room, it reeks of stale urine and cigarettes. Brown tile floors, filthy from collecting the dirt and bugs she carries in with her shoes. Broken pipes and used needles resting in each corner, slowly accumulating as the days go by. Walls that were once white are now yellow from the smoke and smothered in writings. She writes on them when she is strung out, her words always so sad and bitter.

A worrier who wonders where the wisdom lies when silent cries fall on deaf ears. Visions through the eyelids that led to the tainting of a young beautiful mind. Not a mistake, but a chance that was taken from her with the sequence of events that left room for accidents and disappointments. With every poor decision she makes, life seems easy when she’s on the take. All the bonds she forms seem fake, slithering around her like snakes. It’s easy to relate to someone who doesn’t see through glass eyes and transparent lies, while trying to disguise the rapid rise in dissatisfaction. She makes thoughtless, costly bad decisions while her vision impaired, decisions that led to her being here. I thought she cared about the outcome, but the bitter finish left her numb. A symbol of our selfish ways, that empty feeling forever stays. With overflowing ashtrays and a vast array of emotions, she is drunkenly swaying through the motions. Nobody belongs in an empty room. Her only companions are the cockroaches roaming around feeding off her dirt and rotten food.

She’s gone, and it will never be the same. She’s gone, and if I call her name she won’t come for me, she will never bat an eyelash in my direction. A fragile soul, a fouling meek mind with bitter, heartless words. So much denial, so much contradiction, so much instability. She’s gone, but I know she can make it back. I want to tell her she does not have to inject her veins with this poison to ease the pain. She has tainted all that she loves with her darkness, and she is not fighting to get away. I resist her, but I also welcome her with her writings on the wall. She fights off the pain and tears as she tries not to break, but it feels like all her strength is being sucked away. Shallow thoughts piercing through a shallow heart, a masterpiece, a somber work of art. The senseless days are starting to feel a little too comfortable. The fog in her mind seeps through the gaps and fills them with numbness. Pain always leaves its mark and never really fades. Just another poison to add to her bitter heart. Danger lurks in the shadows while life escapes you right before your eyes.

Dirty mattress on the floor covered with burn holes; I watch her lay there looking up at the ceiling. I wish I knew what she was thinking, I wish she could hear me, oh if walls could talk. She sits up, opens her small metal box and pulls out a little baggie. She flicks the bag to see what is left from her stash. She has been isolated in here for six days now. She empties her drugs in the cooker, lights a candle as she holds it over the flame. Her eyes fixated on the rock, slowly melting and beginning to bubble. Her heart is beating stronger as she inhales the scent of her wicked enemy. Her hands are trembling from sleep deprivation and lack of food that she almost spills the liquid. She puts the cooker down, takes the cap off the needle and gradually fills it with the venom. She wraps a tie around her right arm, as her left arm has recently retired due to the abuse from the needle. Only to be left with the scars exposing her silent agony. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath; I can see a tear making its way down her cheek. She is mumbling words I wish to hear but I cannot, I can only watch her battle her inner demons, hoping one day she will win. If walls could talk, I would tell her this is not the way, this does not have to be the screen play, that this does not have to be her last day. I would tell her that her time is fading away, along with her feeble soul. I would tell her that I still think she is beautiful. But I can no longer tell her that she is safe and okay.

I’ve been watching her slowly self-destruct for five years and now I know she will never come back. She has shunned me from any possibility to make it out of this darkness. Her eyes so empty you can’t bear to stare. Her tears only appear when she is sober which makes her sick. Dopesick. Her smile no longer has a presence, hiding the missing and rancid teeth that are left. Her skin as white as the snow, brimming with scars and scabs. Her arms, hands, feet, toes were filled with them, and she no longer tried to hide it. Her body was a victim of her sins, her heart was a victim of her pains, and her soul was a victim of her darkness.

Venom injected; she was too weak to resist, losing herself in the abyss. And here I am, left to wonder, will she have the chance to write words on me again? Or, will this be the end of her story on the wall? The last chance, the last dance.