Poetry

That House

That house

always seemed dark and cold

to me. It felt.

ill-fitting, a suit made

too quickly, too cheaply. Around

my chest

it was tight,

too short for my frame, leather

wearing holes in my

heels and toes. Not the

comfortable, tailored joy

that my siblings wore.

Squat and dark, it spat me out each morning,

to chew me back in each afternoon.

Pulled in by clawed arm

Into a crush of hallway

and stairs.

There was too little light

in that house. It took me

thirteen years, almost,

to grow up and fill my room. To grow

out so I could touch walls

and ceilings enough to

make sure they were

not growing either. Then I could dip into

 my self. Paint the walls with me, murals

covering shadows. But

I could never

paint that house comfortable.

Not with anything,

any means. None of it

 was mine,

only a small portion

 loaned.

So I itched, itched, itched to take it off

Dan Turner