the anatomy of a house
houses don’t die easily. they just wait.
their roots soak themselves in the saline, the aerated, the unclean. inundated by the wounds of their
inhabitants.
those inhabitants can move on. the house cannot.
at one point or another, a house’s roots become saturated and full. unable to continue their absorption.
the tears, the blood, and the bile begin to overflow back into the house itself.
it cannot move away. it cannot leave. it cannot wash itself clean.
it must live with our strife and negligence long after we have rid ourselves of it. this contagion, this
pollution, erodes the walls of the house from the inside.
each time a new family takes residence within, the weight bearing down on a house multiplies. this
family’s burdens worsen the affliction. quicken the cancer.
eventually, a house can no longer hear its own groaning and creaking, so clogged is it with our suffering.
clotted with our tears. its sense of self drowns in our selfish misery.
this is when a house turns to malice.
it becomes difficult to navigate. it locks doors, seals rooms, and winds in on itself. the illness overflows
into its spaces. memories long since forgotten begin to manifest.
old storage boxes draw attention to themselves.
the house lures the inhabitants into their own pasts. if it must so completely soak in its history, then
so must we.
when a house has fully ensnared the mind within its own cacophony, asphyxiating it with just an ounce of
the bloat it suffers while it drags towards slow, distant death,
it begins to turn the lights out.
we move away. we know when we are unwelcome.
but unoccupied spaces must find something to fill them.