by Belyn Thompson

 

In my house

Fingerprints stain the dark oak railing

Pictures of snowy days that seem too familiar 

Echos of laughs I recognize but blurry faces burn my eyes

A deep set memory fleeing from me 

 

I know I don’t belong here

Carpet stained from someone else’s ice cream disaster 

Not me but this flicker of a feeling that tells me I have been here

Yet I don’t belong here

 

This house isn’t perfect and white

The walls are scratched

Rats claw at my insides

A tall window with stories stacked on the pane don’t know who I am

The bones of the home resonate chants to expel me 

They know I don’t belong here.

So why do I stay?