House pt 1

Brick. Red orange sunset meshed with my eyes. Petrol, my perfume. Dirt, its grime is a crowded room. Lives behind the fingernails, birds nest in my hair. An entry for my diary, belle epoque. When we sleep, the city is alive through its music. Fluorescent vibrations of color. Housing vouchers shredded paper. Handmade newspapers. Beat poets street sweepers. Carnival shoreside of character.

In the middle of the night, the rain comes through my building. Its hairline split sideways. Third story rental. Roof top access. Books pile inside my robe pockets. Fortunes from the city. There's a zine underground poet first initial G. They stick papers between the cracks of century old buildings. In the cruxes of brick, where it belongs. A mad Ahab. I am their white whale. My grubby fingers can't stay away. Its sugar on my tongue. My tank on empty. Chasing cats in daylight. Searching for an identity that'll feel real.

Down the hallway, rain comes from the ceiling. Out the window, it's dry. My red polka dot umbrella twirls between my fingers. One eye open, one half shut. I've collected pages as if amnesia is my second life. The house smells of dusted peaches in mason jars in a cellar. Sandalwood on the book spine, incense lint between the toes. Landlord says the pipes’ all fine. Says, restoration near perfect. City division observed the moisture. Says, it's not their jurisdiction. The rain still comes every night at the third hour. In the morning it'll be dry.

The house breathes, its own organ tuning itself for strangers passing through. Kitchen’s made for a family. Circa decades old, I wasn't born yet. It has tools that could be sold for scraps. Strange apparatuses without direction. No manual or card key. The kitchen waits for me, like a mother checking the time. Umbrella closed. Fridge open. Tea on the kettle. Earl grey bergamot. Caffeine puts me to sleep faster than lavender. I stop and listen to the rain. It doesn't pound its fists in protest. Its mist lingers on the walls. Scentless.

The boy pretends to love me. His treasures nestle inside my ribcage, false ribbons. Bows carve in and weave holes where disease prevails. He tastes like summer where seasons never change. Alone in the kitchen, I sweat out his poetry for admirers. Their lips part, and suck in all my air. I grasp for the broken fragments, the stained glass fades. It wants what it cannot have.

When I cry, the rain stops. His ghost lives in the meshes of my sleeves. I don't even know his name, only the color of the sky when it meets his eyes. He cannot see me, there's mirrors that canvases all of his skin. My reflection is a cell unborn. The spoons clink in circles. I wait for the whirlpool. Visualize Alice’s potion shrinking my body to the bottom. My airwaves suffocate beneath the water.

Bills come in. Rents due. Negative bank account. Drowning under the weight of the roof. Says, such a shame for the privilege to die poor. Think I’d rather be a cat. Lounge for free.

Everything out of reach feels like a challenge.

I declare nothing, made of me.