words:
i am my own
i have built myself a one bedroom
single bed home in my bones
with a garden and white
picket fence
but if you had sense
you’d look close to see
the paint curling off
the planks
so obviously,
i’ve never understood
why i stain it so religiously
when it’ll always be a mess
underneath the fake finesse
but i digress
i keep my lawn manicured
snipped short till i bite skin
and if you ask nicely
step through the land mines
you can come in
we’ll enter through the attic
it’s a topsy turvy
cluttered catastrophe
while some spiderweb-coated
corners and crannies
cover the space
other parts are pristine
sparkling, new, unused
but if only i knew what to do
with the walls, short sprawling verses
envelope them all
the heart, i’d say
is the living room
and if you don’t mind the palpitations
looming threat of infatuation
occasional lack of motivation
it’s not a bad spot to spend your time
while away hours, thinking up rhymes
the ceiling drips with blood, ink
and something that when you
run your fingers through it
feels like nostalgia
the kitchen’s too big
for just me
hallways too wide
too much space for echoes inside
it gets lonely when you only
have conversations with your
own voice
but i guess i have a choice
i could go if i wanted
share the floorboards with someone
in a place less haunted
but i like it here
and i’m happy to stay in this mess on my own
in this home i have built for myself in my bones
Негізгі бет real estate: a poem
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