Picking up the pieces.

Yesterday, my mom and step dad's house was broken into and ransacked. A few hours later I made a recording on my Mp3 player while walking through what was left of my room. What follows is the transcription. The line breaks are an attempt to mimic the cadence...so deal with it.

I stand at the top of the stairs,
and,
almost every,
piece of me,
is scattered all around.
A few...precious treasures are missing,
others broken.
and I'm not really sure what to think right now.
As I walk,
across,
the room,
there are memories.
Every piece,
of baggage that you carry,
is a memory.
From the clothes you wear,
to your Mp3s,
Everything you own,
has a story,
to tell.
This is what makes us sentimental.
But,
to walk in,
and see your entire life,
in a physical disarray.
Everywhere you look,
is a memento.
A painting of Bruce Campbell.
Small plastic Batmobile.
Half a dozen spirals.
Then you start to notice the empty spaces.
and you see what they took.
you look,
at the spot,
where your 360 used to be.
It fucks with your head,
which is a fragile thing.
As my eyes assess the damage,
I think,
"Jesus Christ,
what's left to take?"
Right now,
I can hear noises downstairs.
And I'm terrified.
yet,
also relieved.
I just wanna be awake when it happens.
It feels like my time is up,
and,
I think this is it.
And I can't,
I can see everything,
but I can't,
find a goddamn pen to write it all down.
I don't know if anyone,
is going to hear this,
but I hope they do.
At the top of the stairs again.
I've booby trapped the door with a broom.
And I think about everything,
her,
the fights,
empty promises,
broken ones.
all of it and,
I wish I had a second chance,
and actually used it to show her what I'm made of.
Now I,
see it all.
and it doesn't do a damn bit of good.