poems are the only language I can speak right now

me

 

sometimes I think

this body belongs to

no one

least of all the

one it shapes itself

around

 

 

constellations in styrofoam

 

there is a smell

now in this room. The

two ceiling panels

fell out like

rotten teeth

their dark

stain an eerie brown

never wet again

behind this the first ceiling. The

one this house was born

beneath, a long crack

shudders deeply

carved

who knows the wound that

caused its skin to split

its blood to spill. Now a

smell hangs here, hovers near windows

open, hoping to be let out like something

once lived has died. How long will its ghost

haunt this room, and claim the space that once called

me home.

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