By Bonanza Jellybean
That house.
The house I hid away in; yes,
that house,
head under the blankets
to shut out
the daylight,
the landlord’s call,
the knocking
from anyone at all;
the face in the window,
that I don’t recognize,
but that looks a lot like me.
From here,
I stand to look at you, house,
with a stomach full of rocks.
Knowing
the contents of my life
still lie in the bottom of a box
forgotten in that corner by
the window that’s still shattered,
the red curtains closed,
bleeding over the things that
I thought mattered.
Inside,
stepping over clothes
forgotten after they were flung
masterpieces remain unfinished, and
pictures left unhung.
Cupboards are still empty.
Ghosts of “Remember When?” will still be
lying on the bathroom floor
like those people that
“I’ll never be like…”.
Outside,
the skinny black cat
still hides by the front door,
afraid to come in
and ask for more but
too hungry to run.
I can see all of this
from here, in a new house,
by a new window, looking out
of new curtains,
on a new bed,
with my new cat;
I can see this because
part of me is still there, in that
old house, in that old bed,
with my head under the blankets,
too hungry to run.