With every passing second, a light in me
dims; blinks
as the nails on each floorboard loosen
just a tad(but it all
adds up in the end, right?)
Did they not tell you,
people cannot be made homes?
They come alive in the night,
shutting their eyes- letting no sliver
of moonlight in;
leaving your mind disfigured, your thoughts
horribly twisted.
Or perhaps floods that invite themselves in
without knocking, you're the unsuspected
victim of the night and your bones are placid,
hands that weren't ever caught red.
Though in my case it seems,
people choose not even to stay
for a week.
After all, home is where the heart is and
only the insane would make a home
of me.