Comments about Jordan Estabrooks
Old lead paint chips slicing under my fingernails
as I run my hand down the decrepit remains of the wall.
Creaking hinges, which cut crisply into my psyche.
This used to be home.
Scorched walls, emotions, burning like fire, but ice cold,
scarred, and left alone.
This used to be my home;
debris falling, cracking, whispering,
reminding me of what was once home...
It's hard to breathe here now... but, it always was.
I held my breath through the worst of it.
This used to be our home,
now, a shell of hatred, echoing pain
like a sharp shriek down a ...