the House that Eugene Built


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Had my soul been a house.

It would have been filled with spirits of an anonymous kind.

Disenchanted mirrors.

Spouting monomers, not so refined.

The phrase,

“I love you.” spoken in jest.

“I love you.”

Bringing to my earth only dust.

However,

I am not a house.

I am a woman made of pliable, blood pumping, stone.

Someone who aches like a dog…

When left too long.

I am a ‘speakeasy’ told to hush.

Constructed to perceive her father’s true existence.

How to comprehend one child’s life meeting with such resistance.

How love could have…

Maliciously, brick upon brick.

Bestowed life.

By a woman lonely for death.

And,

a man, who should not have brandished a knife.

 

 

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