you knock as though it is necessary,
a desire to feel welcomed that you'll soon hang
by the door along with your daytime lies
and false grins
the smell of peaches and cream
greets you with mercy and
it feels like a sin to touch
something so vulnerable
in my house,
you will find no piercing words,
no lack of sunlight through lace curtains,
no fear of empty cupboards and shelves,
never ending artwork
an amateur Picasso
sat on this very floor, once
painting the sunflowers that
sit by my kitchen window
i hung the letter he wrote to Leo
on the fridge as a gentle
reminder to forgive
i'm still learning how to
distinguish the difference between
being unredeemable and being seventeen;
i'm still learning to walk through
life with my eyes open
i'm hoping that if i surround myself
with enough light it might disturb
this darkness that has settled
in between my clavicles
and the hollow ground
at my cheekbones
in my house
you'll find a peace i thought worth fighting for,
mismatched furniture scattered haphazardly,
tea in the kettle, laughter in the walls
and perhaps you only mean to visit,
and i may never shut the door properly
in order to honor your future absence,
but know that when your attention
heads for brighter shores,
i will have wished you stayed.
stay.
YOU ARE READING
HEAVENLY CORRUPTION
PoetryThe ramblings of a woman who spent too much time in confession and too little time trying to figure out what exactly she was apologizing for.
