Writing

Once cleaned, it shone just a little. Once the dirt had freed the engraving, It was almost beautiful.
It smelled like metal, Like blood. The weight in your hand, A strange sort of Comfort.
The hinges were a taunt. The locket rusted shut Long ago. Well cared for, And then Tossed away.
The clasp stuck More often than not. This provided A tiny pocket of safety; It would not fall From your neck.

A house, Tall and narrow. Where a draft buffets every surface, Where bread would never rise, Where conversations were short, And over cold tea and stale cookies.
Then- It was full, so full it was bursting at the seams; But not with people, with things, But bile, and sadness; With fear that things would change and fear they would stay the same. Anger leaking through the hastily glued seams of its porcelain face.
And now- It is empty. Now, it is quiet; Still in the way it could never quite manage before. Finally at peace, just as the last person who cared, gives up. A broken clock, never quite right.
Then, now, and forevermore- It is cold. Winter is stuck in the corners, a smell you can't quite get rid of. Walls, the blue of a clouded sky, peel, Bit by bit, As it waits for someone To bring in their boxes And start again.