I stand before a door
barely standing,
worn
with the weight of nails
that puncture it,
half-heartedly.
Wind whistles through
the gaps in its slats -
permitted to pass
only by virtue of a vulnerability

that I feel vicariously now.

It flings open with the wind
like an injured wing,
and I am ushered in
before it swiftly slams
with a shriek
that echos down a corridor
I can’t quite see the end of.

A stain in my blindside…
this house seems bigger on the inside.

But I am eyed,
by the portraits that follow
my fawn-footed movements
like bloodhounds

and my eyes
capture little,
except for in their corners,
where things seep in
and leak out

the air around me
tugs me,
strokes me,
and I’m reminded of my body….

I peel back a sliver of skin
from the red trench
of my nail bed
and notice
that the wallpaper and I
share a vice.

There is unfinished business
beneath the flickering
of these lights,
among the scurrying of mice,
that shit and shed in the gaps
between walls

wherein a silent bell tolls,
spills, pools
and curls in the ear -
burrowing to the brain
like a mite

gnawing,
spawning,
stewing spite.

night after dogged night.