When speaking of the house,
With all my strength I long to say that
The walls knew me, that the mantles
Nourished me and could in a tacit manner
Speak to me. I long to say that, in this
World there is not a place that could have
Loved me more.
But then it wasn’t me who lived in it.
The stairs I held so dear appear both board
And carpet. The photographs I knew with
Glacial clarity lack expressions, and their
Stories mulch into tarnish and indifference.
It is, and was, both your reality and
My invention. Faces you knew were dolls that
I painted, your furniture my decoration and your
Entire life my fantastical prevarication.
It takes so much to realise that the
Clay of our arcs expresses its resistance
The harder it is that you push.
Life is made for other people,
And as much as I despise it,
That includes you.