scribblingwren avatar

Ward 13


Urban explorers came in tweed to photograph. Positioned dolls. Prams. Anything to make the decay seem more macabre. Although nothing could match the horrors of its past.

The spiralling of a staircase we weren't allowed to climb. Skeletal exposed springs of a mattressless bed propped against a door. Padded. To soften our blow.

The focus on three words.
Words we thought but could never say.
Words we'd write if allowed pens.
Written in 1989 by a boy here to kiss a girl in the desertion.
Written in black.
In capitals.
Meant as a joke.
But rarely was there laughter here.

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