Writing prompt:

A fridge full of rotten guilty pleasures I wear my heart on my sleeve but my truth is buried deep within my chest your arms are unable to dig deep enough they'd be short, weak and slender if they were your words. I remember a colourful road, a street, a house beside a house and another house and a home, I remember tunnels and playgrounds that I move fast though, but I can't, to save my life, I can't remember you. I pick my pains and sorrows, I often talk them down, I keep a fridge of rotten secrets from whom you'll never hear a sound.