My house, when I was young,
was tangled with trees and neat little flowers,
lined in rows — seas of red, pink, and white.
Or perhaps that was only a dream,
and I was never young.
Perhaps I arrived
fully formed, carved in stone,
walking in borrowed feet.
How is it that I gave myself up so easily?
Was it the sparse decorations,
the dusty mirrors where I saw myself,
trying not to become barren,
swallowed by storms,
covering bone with flesh, hair,
and new fabric?
I wish there were a place
to set down my heart and leave it there —
let my lungs do the talking,
let my arms measure the weight of hurt.
Perhaps then I could lift my spirit
at the decay of night,
and not lie awake,
in this sedated body,
restless beneath the autumn sky.
This tenacious boredom
has carved a cathedral
deep in my wounds.
How quickly I would give it all up,
burn it all, so easily —
if I weren’t made of neat little flowers,
smoke, ash, and forgotten relics.
But how can I?
They deserve to flee,
to root themselves
in a new home
elsewhere.