If My Walls Could Talk

They’d probably tell on me, but I wonder which rumors they’d choose to spread.

Would it be the story of how much I procrastinate; how I spin on my heels eighty-nine times a day before making it out the door when I need to be somewhere on time?

I wonder if they notice me when I have a bad day, when I’m out in space, when I can’t concentrate because the world’s batsh*t. I wonder if they can tell that my soul is scarred because cold-hearted lads keep finding a way to get in my heart; that I allow too many chances, that I’m too nice to the unkind. I wonder, I really wonder if they’d tell about the sobs, if they think I’m nuts or are aware of the role that is played by the moon’s phase.

If my walls could talk, I wonder if they’d gasp at my not-so-angelic behavior; if they’d be proud or ashamed. (I think I make them proud, but that’s just me.)

Would they judge my culinary skills; how I’ve burned a stew or two and the repetitive dishes that I can barely cook? I wonder if they know that I can’t function when it’s cold, that in the winter I can never wear too many clothes.

Or would they talk about the more pleasant things, like how I can’t leave a dirty plate in the sink or can’t go on with my day before making my bed, or the story of how the trash gets taken out before it rots or how I bathe countless times in this tropical realm?

I hope they like the string lights I use to decorate and the art I’ve made and the music I play and the movies I watch and the scent I wear and the books I read…

Lastly, I wonder if my walls would talk to each other only or if they would tap the neighbors’ walls for extended ranting. I hope it’d all stay between us because there are so many stories I’d be afraid of if my walls could talk.