It's My House 

We create home for ourselves when nobody else can do it for us.

It’s my house, and I live here 
with dove colored curtains 
that mask the windows of me
The silk garments adorned on my body 
which hide the tiny green branches in my arms 
A canvas with the blood of my hands smeared on it
diluted with hydrogen peroxide 
to mend the forgotten wounds 
of pricked fingertips 
Empty bottles of Shea Moisture 
and Carol’s Daughter 
littered on the floor 
used for watering the vegetation 
that grows out of my skull
It’s my house, and I live here
with the handsome stranger 
that stands in my doorway 
and gazes at the constellations in my eyes 
The basement is often flooded 
with the faith of the old me
that drowns these wicked statues 
and monuments of the past 
Walls that are covered in sketches 
from my childhood 
are spread out on deteriorating wallpaper that chips 
and falls on the hardwood floor
Mirrors smeared with lipstick gleam in the sunlight 
creating a resplendent, rosy hue 
It’s my house, and I live here with you 
the one I see reflected in the glass 
who wears adornments in her luscious mane 
and plays Billie Holiday in the evening 
The various shades that she stains her nails 
when there is simply no other task to do 
All of the many devices she uses to contact her lover 
who lives far, far away 
but she hopes to someday see again 
after what feels like an eternity 
The unwritten compositions 
that sit in the back of her mind
the ones she never remembers 
and scolds herself for
because they never got on paper
This is my house, and I live here

(203) 892-5596

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