The part that calls through a door
echos in floorboards
asking to be opened.
Traveling from foot to spine.
From chest to head.
Listen, the house of my body
has a room you won’t see.
I don’t visit much, unless it’s dark,
unless I’m looking at the floors again,
unless I admit I know how to kill beautiful things.
You’ll ask about the rope, the string, the thread.
The rope loops around and you laugh as if this house can’t move.
You’ll trip before you realize it.
I promise it will never hold you and
I’ll give you light and a knife.
But let’s not get too ahead,
here are the rules for now:
1. The house sinks and floats and you must press against the floorboards to tell.
2. The attic is off limits, even I can’t visit sometimes.
3. This house is a body, is a house, wants to be a home.
4. Some lights never go out, it’s better this way.
5. The heavy room is here to stay, I need you to know that. It’s always been this way.
Now come over lover, I want to be the
warmest thing you know.