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If walls could talk,
ours would cough,
would tell us to stop smoking in the living room
because clearly the window is too small.
They’d complain about the carpet
(which we never clean)
soaked in blood and vodka and god-knows what else,
would remind us of exactly why
we should never walk around in bare feet.
And they’d point out all the scuff marks,
say, ‘Where the hell do you come up with this?
Since when is throwing knives at chopping boards
or throwing a diablo under a low ceiling
or playing rugby inside ever a good idea?
And, on that note,
turn the bleeding TV down.
Next door can hear whenever England score.
If our four walls could talk,
they’d have to smirk a little
when we make each other laugh so hard
we can’t breathe.
They’d hum along just a bit
when we belt out the lyrics
to whatever god-awful Spotify playlist
is on shuffle.
They’d chuckle when we dance around the room –
twirling in the kitchen making breakfast,
bobbing along at the table doing work,
to the bass of cheap speakers
drunk on cheap spirits.
They’d stay silent for weeks on end,
hating that we leave dishes everywhere,
drink too much, swear too much,
and stick bad posters where they can damage the paint work –
but they would wish the holidays were over
so we’d all come flooding back.