This home—
this compilation of bricks and stones,
rough and speckled
from seasons had and passed.
glue and insects
crawling in the woodwork,
carving out paths
of pits and channels.

I once knew that step,
tripped over it with tiny feet,
with questioning heels,
friends and lovers in tow.
once knew that kitchen windowsill
where I carved my name
(but later swore I didn't),
silently retaining the lie
over years of meals on
smooth wooden tables.

I put the holes in these walls
I shed my skin in these rooms
my existence echoes through these halls.
and I sign my name in dirt, i was here.