My ribs were the opening door for many to crawl into my skin
as they gently pushed, at the center of my body.
My ribs would give way as easily as wind chimes to the wind,
but when my ribs dinged against each other, there was no soft melody.
Except the scraping sounds of moving old furniture across wooden floors.
The groans of loves seats too tired to want to live somewhere new,
anxiety of having your counterpart, separated, and living across the room.
Those floating floors dipping to the cement.
Too worn from being walked all over without any care or repair.
The chimes do not stop at the door.
They bounce and echo off cliche yellow stained wall paper,
since the body is not a relict of the 70's but a newer model from the 90's.
When these people sneak on in they want to have a grand tour
wanting to be shown the history,
that lay within the amber bricks edging themselves around the fireplace.
All I can really tell them is that I will show them to their room.
That was only the beginning as they trouble me more and more
asking about every door that we pass, that's boarded up with rusty nails,
briskly I open their door and tell them to feel at home.
I warn them that the power is not so great here,
some times, often, always, it will shut down.
We don't know how long it will take to get back as it's always different.
They tell me, they do not mind all these flaws, as they add character.
I nod and leave them to rearrange their new place to stay.
Eventually this room will share in only being used for the acoustics.
As well as another door I will need to glance pass,
when the next passerby comes to stay.
I imagine this is what many people feel like. As if they are a broken home full of rooms that no one can use anymore. Run down spaces that are in need of repair. Easily letting people enter their life, but hard to share their history with them. Ashamed?
