I oil my door to choke the cry that it makes,
and the rug on the porch hides the fact that it breaks.
my windows are broken, my structure's unsound,
but people don't know it when they walk around.
my white walls are painted and hung with a sheath
that is anything but the gray bleak underneath,
and they call it a portrait but nobody knows
the painting I framed hides a thousand black holes.
they could swallow this house and no one would see
anything but this lovely shell of me.
it's still white, still pretty, seems all the right way-
so long as the people inside never stay.
and they don't (the dust on the floor is my proof),
I blame their absence on account of my roof,
for it leaks cold wind and can never keep heat,
but the truth is, you see, that my friends never keep.
so I protect my walls and tread light on each floor
and I never, ever willingly open the door.
I can stay tall and sound and sure on my beams,
and, if I try, pretend I'm solid at the seams,
but the wounds are still there and it takes up a life
pretending to be perfect when perfect is strife.