Work Text:
This house is now
a graveyard.
Ghosts squeeze through the bullet-shaped holes in the floor
The walls smell like rotting milk or rotting bodies
The air tastes like dust
The smell of rose perfume still wafts down the staircase.
Inside it isn’t pitch-black
but a gloomy gray all fog and murk.
It looks the way cold cliffside air feels-
Like at any second
the cold is all there will be,
Like you’re below the Mariana Trench
or you’re inside a Stephen King novel.
The house was once bright as morning.
Now the stairs creak
and groan like someone is trapped beneath.
Stories pile inside this house,
their pages empty,
scattered in my closet like autumn leaves.
All the books I own are diaries, which my friends say are silly.
Because in 15 years,
I wouldn’t care about my teenage days!
I agree to disagree.
Such a ceaseless schedule I follow
Day By Day
Stitched into my mind.
I was happy writing my personal tombstone quotes
Until slowly
I vanished among the tree roots
gone without a trace
And now I write my stories there
and read them to the gloom.
I am ready to work through it all...
So that maybe, in 9 years or 10,
I will be standing--
Walking!-
Speaking to all those who care.
Where there are colorful bones
Skulls that laugh and cry
And delicate whispers only I can feel
Floating amongst the fireflies.
Se mettre le doigt dans l’oeil
For now, the rocks march like tiny gray soldiers
And build themselves with wooden hammers and nails
to create this house that is a graveyard
And make it stand tall.