The key they’d given me still fit the lock,

but the house no longer felt like home.

The familiar photos still hung on the wall,

But I feel so completely alone.

It’s been eight months since you left,

Not that you had the choice.

But you left me here by myself dammit,

& I really need to hear your voice.

This house is my house, but no…

it’s not a home.

Because you should be here,

Not under a head...

Silently, “Breaking News” plasters the muted 1998 monitor as Martha opens up a vacant cabinet. She studies the only mug on the shelf that somehow made it through six moves with the Coopers. It’s unbreakable bond and determination made her feel connected to the piece of ceramic.

She grabs the tepid pot of Maxwell house and fills her cup. The kitchen smells of burnt coffee and the checkered linoleu...

I’ve already heard these words,

I’ve already sung this song.

But let me take a minute,

And listen to every step I took wrong.

You’re addicted to power,

You crave the high.

But instead of the truth,

You blatantly lie....