Salty tires

The person next door to me built a monster-like home. It towers over me like a deep purple, well… monster. Right next to me—not a grass expanse of yard away, but right next to me. The decks they built are high above my hovel looking down on me and even if I were to put up a wall, it would be have to be two stories tall to avoid their unannounced gaze. It is just not feasible. The peaceful private life I struggled so hard to keep and preserve has been violated. No one knows the sacrifices in all these years I’ve made to be “home.” To be here. I don’t talk about it. I could, but I don’t. What would be the point?