When we are born we are a brand new house, sprung up from the dirt,
Smudgeless windows and doors that have yet to be open. The attic is clean and the basement is empty.

But as people tend to do, we get older and worn.

The windows get broken by baseballs and rocks of name calling and put downs
The attic is dusty with forgotton promises and abandoned childhood dreams
The basement is cluttered with hand me down Christmas ornaments and summertime clothes.

We aren’t apartments or condo’s or studio’s
We are large colonial style mansions with a lawn and a treehouse out back.
We have depth.
We have floors.
We have 6 bedrooms and 4 baths.

But even though we are glorious houses with stone fireplaces and marble countertops
Our lightbulbls burn out,
Door hinges get squeaky
We wear out.
I like to think normal people and houses wear out on their own. With time. Naturally.
But people like me, houses like me,
Aquirre damage somewhere in the middle of their exsistence.


Our houses get holes in the roof from too many rainstorms thundering down
Raccoons and squirrels rats and bugs invade my house,
Gnawing on the rafters and chewing on the stairs

A family doenst live in my house.

No mother, no father, no sister no brother.
No order. No purpose.
This house is abandonded, this house is desereted.
Empty.

Worn.
Tired.
Breaking.

This is a house but this isn’t a home.