they said it skipped a generation

it didn't.

I look at the walls white faded halls and think of the emptiness, the false innocence that hid behind the mind. The bathroom hides scenes and the bedroom hides colors of green. A poor man's envy a dying girl's home. Growing up in a full house yet never feeling more alone. Each crowded room is a stage concealing inner rage, a gilded empty page turning with a silent age. Her room caged hurt feelings hid under a skirt, dreams molded like food left too long in the fridge. A living room meant to grow old into to rot away in to live vicariously through family and friends. To die in this home is to die alone, never to live or be comfortable in your own skin.