I am a house.
My white picket fence is cracked and wonky, and admittedly more yellow than desired,
but it does its job as well as the next one. Possibly even better. Force the rusted lock open if you dare.
My cracked pavements wind and twist and turn, leading you this way, that way, disorientating arrangements of rough, jagged rocks,
piercing to anyone who treads too heavily.
Weave through the land mines and I might just let you in.
We'll enter through the window -
the doors are old and overused, clinging onto their hinges
suffering the aftermath of too many exits.
The halls are too wide for just me,
vast spaces, more suited to a family of 6 than a girl who amounts to nothing.
The kitchen is a black hole - enticing you in with a huge force that's almost irresistible, eventually leaving you...nowhere. Feeling...well, nothing. Empty, no matter how much you take from the apple trees that seem to turn rotten and sour as soon as they touch your now soiled lips. I'd advise you to stay away from there.
The living room is no better, with dusty surfaces and a sofa that seems far too large to be real.
A heart stands in the centre of the room, worn and torn, tired and barely beating. Dusty. Musty. Unused. Not needed.
The stairs are impossible. Caves and labyrinths and mountains,
slopes that end at the beginning. There are a few steps missing along the way - people often fall through the cracks. Watch your step.
We'll find our way to the attic eventually,
if we make it that far - you'd be the first.
They'll be piles and piles of books,
cobwebs and cogs and a few hundred memories. Something clinging to the walls that feels like regret - no, wait - that's nostalgia. I suppose you might a find a few universes hiding away in corners or under an old boot. Don't touch the stars, either - they scattered themselves amongst the forests and rivers long ago, and I learnt to leave them as they are. The floor will be creaky but pure,
like snow before someone steps in it. Those precious few hours of peace, before somebody comes along and whips it into a flurry, yet they're just passing by.
and if you somehow survived, you'll already be there. You'll be the entire room, the entire atmosphere, the modern power generator in a Victorian abode. You'll feel it in the air, when you run your fingers through the dreams that drape from what seems to be the ceiling.
But you'll leave.
You'll traipse through the labyrinths and wade through the rivers,
You'll give the kitchen a wide berth, and take one last glimpse at the living room, at that towering heart, and watch as it dulls a little more. And you'll pry your way through the door - the one that appeared to be broken,
you'll pound back through the pavements and escape without a scratch.
You'll escape without a scratch, and I'll stay prisoner, your wounds piercing my arms, my feet, like a kick in the stomach. Worse than a kick in the stomach. The yellow picket fence will yellow even more.
I'm a house
I'll never be a home.
