Outside of the cold dancing and screaming,
The cutting of neon pink blades
Right through my sclera,
There is a palace,
Hidden away behind the rusted once-white tiles.
Its walls are made of the greyest stone,
Covered in the greenest moss,
The most twisted vines,
And the pinkest blossoms.
It stretches farther than I can imagine,
And every corridor I hadn’t noticed
goes on endlessly.
I have tried to map it,
But the more I try,
The bigger it grows.
And when I sleep there,
I hear growls in the distance,
Along with scratching
And the shuddering of windows
It does not want me to stay.
And when I pry my eyes open,
The palace leaves me,
And I am hiding in the bathroom once more.