it was a house
her house
that imprisoned her
she watched the people come and go
passing through like tourists
never stopping
she watched their peachy faces
smelled the sun rubbing on their skin
felt the weight of their bones on her body
she let them wreck her home
before scrubbing off the remains
of someone else’s fingertips on her
and every room on every floor
spotless when the night falls
when she welcomes them again
arms opened, legs opened
this house never locks its door
a year by year
she grows old within these walls
tripping on the wooden slats
and nails coming off the floors
a face that holds decades
slowly wearing out
voice thinning
and hair falling out
eyes eyeing the lock
mind locking the door
these windows to the soul
take the house as their own
the house of a woman
that once housed a whore
REDBIRD WRITER 