What you’d find when I lived in my Hell

I had to move, leave from my place, my place called my Hell.
Leading to my door from the bus stop, was the road atlas to the pain that stabbed me at
the jugular,
the broken sidewalks I walked on, symbolic for the jagged pieces of my heart, the stairs
through the door, that I took so long to climb, because the higher I went, I started
choking, I could no longer breathe.

My apartment door I entered with no back door to escape, when I entered my Hell—I
unlocked the door, I stepped into no peace-the floors squeaked, I tried not to walk
across it, but the neighbors, so loud and disturbing reminded me of more to come; the
laughing, the auditory hallucinations and delusions; it destroyed my furniture because of
the paranoia and the bed bugs.

I couldn’t find my possessions, it was all stolen from me; I’m displaced, from this space,
that I could not escape.

I’ll no longer experience the police coming to the door again, the ambulance coming to
my door again, the sleepless nights again—I would no longer walk across the broken
sidewalks or walk up those stairs.

I moved to live absent from my Hell; now I live in the memory of my Hell.