Thursday, September 5, 2013

I felt like I was home, but with a lock that I no longer had the keys to; with blinds that undressed themselves when the sky cried and the heavens howled. The pristine ivory paint began peeling away, uncovering cracks that freshly existed, and floorboards whined with the lightest of pressure. Shadows formed where the sun used to sleep and Warhols warped. Mice claimed the basement, while spiders housed the attic. The grandfather clock struck at 11:52 instead of midnight. The house stopped settling at night and that burst of air at 2 in the morning, never tickled my toes hello. The bluebirds stopped kissing the window when the sun graced the horizon, and the steady traffic decided to resign from it’s alarm clock duties. Water dripped instead of flowed from the faucet, and the bristles from my toothbrush were unorderly and awry. Doors that never shut, locked with ease and some doors never opened again. Frocks that I favored, I suddenly loathed, and family portraits shifted into obituaries. I kept the light on and lit a candle and realized, I was no longer home.