I write my sorrows upon the walls with whatever red the night has left in me, each word heavy as rust peeled from the bones of a heart left out in the rain. This flat has become a mausoleum, four walls keeping watch over the wreckage of my name, where every shadow knows my face and every silence remembers what I was too proud to say. I write of loves gone rotten, of promises left to die quietly, of hands slipping from mine when I still mistook staying