I can’t get out the door of my
house. There are intricately knotted
and combined locks to part, which
I have not the key to.
I’m pretty sure I left it somewhere within
Ophelia’s petaled wreaths,
and we all know where that ended up.

I can’t get out the door of my
house. It’s winged porcupine
season. Hadn’t you heard? Oh
yes, they fly about everywhere
on their spiky little wings, banging
around and pricking things.
You’d better be careful or you’ll get one
wedged in your pretty little hairs.

I can’t quite open the door
of my house. They say the longest
journey is the journey inward.
That’s why I’m still within the
walls; there’s a pigheaded
blockade on the other side of this door.
I’m telling you, there is.

It’s the country: Rome, Nigeria,
India, Nicaragua, England that I never
quite reached. The memories I’ve
stolen selfishly from myself; the opinion
that will never boil over from my lips,
because the knowledge it stemmed from
never made it to my mind, because

I can’t get out the door of my house.




It’s a person, the woman,
the man, with blonde hair, and black hair,
scarily skinny, with spoonfuls of freckles,
who laughs like a seagull,
who laughs like a mouse. The one I fell in love
with, the one I couldn’t stand, the friend
who was always there to hold
my hand. The one I never
met because I was trapped in
the parapet created specifically
by myself for the destruction of… well.
Myself.