THIS HOUSE
— all of their bodies lay in the quite
room. faces hidden among furniture's shadows. why they don't look
at me. am i invisible? or not graced
to be seen? i tried all my best to recall them
but they seem pleased with my absent and
i don't know their past
to ask for company.
— all of my organs lay in the
waiting room. beating with different rhythm.
as my brain never was enough for my heart
to catch the words it needed to say. i wait
outside. in the door threshold. what will die first? i wonder. they need my bones, but they crushed. they need my blood, but i sold it. i have nothing to offer. good health is gone, it's just a childish thing. they must grow up now. my absent will give them the life i couldn't provide. they are gray, some still red. they need me gone. i shut the door.
— the kitchen is my favourite place only when it's dark; everyone is asleep, or pretending to be. the place is empty, so i can day dream about the dinner, the laughing, the fighting. i can imagine i cooked something delicious that made mom smiled.
i open the cabinet and all i found were my teeth, from when i hide it to not to grin.
they're really small, as a little mistake. i put them in my mouth, tasted like cold coffee.
i heard a noise. someone's crying.
— the garden doesn't count as something of the house, it shouldn't be. it has its own desires, needs and voice. i heard it all the time. when it rains and
when dad is late from work. the garden is the mother of the bodies. but they can't go there anymore. that's why they are in the quite room, melancholic of the color they lost.
the garden is like the animals of the ocean. it's what i miss when i go. the only that knew my name, that cared to listen.
i can't go inside the garden either. but i wait, as the bodies, for the ruin of this house.
