Oh, Poor House

maggiemaeijustsaythis

This old house,
this old skeleton home
stands as cold as a gravestone.

I once stood warm in the middle,
on soft ground,
on proud carpet
and let the seams out,
unravelling my solid foundation.

My blood didn’t mix well.
It was dry gin,
a steady confrontation
within.

These old thoughts,
these moldy walls,
we’ve sunk deep.
It hasn’t slept since I left.
I chose to be deaf.

I chose this aloneness,
a silent voice sipping on charcoal,
dreaming about a house
that once was a home.

Oh, poor house.
Your empty threshold is tempting but,
now I know,
I have shed you,
and my boiling red blood has
calmed to blue.

I do not miss you.

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