Sometimes I think back to when the faint blue vein that runs around my eye like a mask was something I was proud of,
and not a quaint reminder of the walls I’ve built around myself.
I’ve resided in this house all my life,
surrounded by fogging windows and doors that only seem to deepen with each passing day.
It looks like a normal house,
with a flourishing garden and an ivory front door adjacent to modern illuminated panes.
There’s even a charming pond out back,
complete with a well- loved dock made of sturdy oak.
The elegant, circular driveway showcases the aesthetically pleasing symmetrics of the home’s exterior,
and guides inside a plethora of well- dressed civilians that I should probably remember meeting at some point,
for they all seem to know my name.
They tell my that I’ve sure grown up since they’ve last seen me,
and adore what I’ve done with my hair.
But I don’t understand how I could remember each and every face in this endless sea,
for I’ve never been able to escape this house.
The doorknob burns my palm each time I try.
However, I do recognize my aunt as she makes her way towards me,
taking cautious steps in her floor length, ivory gown to hand me a bouquet.
She gently embraces me and whispers a thoughtful, “I’m glad you could make it,”
and I smile into her shoulder, even though I’ve been here all this time.
A dignified man makes a cordial announcement,
followed by a memorable ceremony in a spacious place barely recognizable as a living room.
I cry for no reason,
but pretend it’s because of the newlyweds joining hands before me.
Soft music begins to play,
and drifts effortlessly through my ears and surrounds me,
slowing down time.
I make my way to a table decorated with rustic burlap and candles,
and seat myself next to my cousin.
I feel sick.
Then before I even know it,
I’m mixing champagne in with my 7-up in order to conceal the bitter taste,
in a poor attempt to forget that I’m even drinking at all.
The Bride’s father makes a toast,
but my drink is already gone.
Yet I’ll clink glasses with my cousin anyway
with my feet shaking under the table.
My aunt looks so beautiful in her wedding dress.
I imagine opening the back door without any pain,
and laying face down on the dock outside with my arm hanging limply over the edge;
my fingertips grazing the cool water’s ebony surface.
With the faint glimmer of lights from the house below my hand,
I’ll be forced to catch flickers of my messy curls and pale face
Watching the night swell like a bruise,
reminding me of you
and desperately pleading for something to pull me under.
t.b.
a poem for creative writing, the prompt being a house