This is a longer poem than ‘Wordplay‘ loosely about my accommodation for first year (*shiver down spine). I thought: what if the house came alive?
This is the result:
HOME IS WHERE…
I open the door to festering walls, its words are but mumbles in the dark.
It’s dark here.
The wallpaper has grown rancid and spongy to the touch. Heaters turn their backs on me. They forget my existence, confident they’d be spared. Pretend I’m not there in exchange for potential freedom. Mice to the trap.
I continue walking.
On my right I hear noises. The floor nips at my feet, teeth bared, snarling. The carpet tries to flee. Forlorn hope. Armchairs snap at me, the sofa glares at me, the curtains rise and hiss at me and their chilling venom whips about me. The fireplace calls to me, “This is our domain”, the horns on the living room door prod me, urging me to leave and I comply.
I continue walking…
There’s a fork in the road. The path to the right promises stinging white walls; a wooden floor with roots peeking out between the cement, and a table made of a thousand silk threads, coaxing me to walk forwards, to be trapped in its web whilst the windows close in on me. Slowly. Their eyes raking over me, panting, pleading with me to take my first steps.
I choose the path on the left.
I climb stairs and suddenly it’s hard to breathe. I lick my lips and taste the seasoned air. The stairs begin to liquefy. I hold tight to the bannister and hear the flapping of wings above me. I reach the top and face a single door.
I reach out to open it.
My legs weaken. I can only take short breaths. I lay on my bed, greeted by the feel of wet leather on my body and seaweed beneath my head. I close my eyes.
Home is where I rest amongst my night terrors.