One house, the all house; yours, and mine.
The house where I am always trapped, where all the doors are shut and I have to yell quietly, gather the children to run. Why are they not running?
The house with chasing, mazes, there-and-not-there, barn, bar where we hid and kissed, head banging, a door that leads to a garage which is not real.
The house with the lake, a tiger on a raft, snapping turtles, drowning. Waking up to toast and coffee and bacon. Fresh morning lakeside septic-tank piss.
Not this place, not that place. Not his place, though it felt my own. Am I transient? Am I bags-packed, though I gave up bags long ago?
What will your home house when you are dead? When it is burned to the ground? Will I return and burn with it, the cancer causing claustrophobic slut with basement tigers and slabs of damp concrete where all the rapes were witnessed? Will it smell the same? Will I be able to hide behind the stairs once and for all?
I’m not only trapped there in my dreams, you know. All the doors are locked in all the houses.
And I’ll never build my own.