papered walls which are a sickly dishwater grey
and even then there are roses gaudy-not-gaudy very likely
the choice of some horrible man always smirking
trying to paper over
dry rot in the furniture in the baseboards in the windows of your neighbors
And someone used to live here
some girl said she felt a presence in the yard or something and
they put her on the news and her hands were shaking
it was such bullshit i couldn’t believe
there’s always a presence in the yard and my hands never shake
i can’t touch it and i don’t try to don’t want to
the curtains are made with bits of my hair and
the chairs are whittled from our mothers’ bones and
a portrait of someone you’ve never met clings to the wall
and looks at you.
And maybe he smiles.
.
.
.