Red spray-painted X, bleeding down the splintered door,
Drips fat as accusation, red as a wound that won’t clot,
Condemned stenciled in black, the warning crawling over old scars,
The house leans in the wind, rot in its bones,
But it’s my chest that caves in,
My ribs the timbers,
My skin the peeling paint,
My spine the cracked frame.
I wear the red X across my heart,
Lines crossing out every last defense,
Every sin bled through to the surface,
Condemned in silent letters nobody needs to read—
They see it in the way I flinch,
The way I drift,
Marked by hands that never cleaned the mess.
The city tape flaps on the stoop,
A dare, a warning, a promise:
Do not enter.
But I was born behind this door.
I sleep beneath its leaking roof,
Red X still dripping,
Condemned,
And still breathing.