if houses could walk

if houses could walk, they would walk away from me

stretch restless legs through their concrete bounds,

pull curtains up, unveil stained glass eyes,

and stand with more vigor than you have ever seen

they would not mind the prints they leave in my dirt,

the shingles that drop onto my ground

blocking the burrows of fairytale rabbits,

startling mud pies and chalk drawings

they would not mind the mess they leave,

but they would mind me.

and you see, i am no match for a walking house

i cannot run after something that so longs to rid itself of me

so determined to see what more there is,

past the fence warped with unkempt grass and wildflowers

but i can sit there, and listen to each step

each stomp shaking the ground on which i stand

and know i will need another place to rest my head

another skull of asphalt slate to keep me dry

because we, these things we are, may amble.

but how dare it leave me here?

how dare it step away, unwavering, from the girl who’d mended it?

drawn on its walls, masterpieces of innocence so very close to the floor,

and cleaned them every time with a gentle hand, a rag warm and soft?

how could it be so willing to roam, away from the girl who stayed

amidst her wanderlust, the growing crater in her chest, the telescope she became?

without leaving so much as a mud trail, without leaving a single kitchen tile stained

no path from the backdoor, not dirty towels from the closet mom told me not to touch,

nothing of use.

nothing to follow.

how dare it leave me here alone?

well, i’ll come to learn a lesson

that house is not heartless

that house kept my body unquivering, kept my tender head dry

and, really, music could have never bounced off of better walls

that house kept my smoke a secret, hid smells like fresh carbon

it held me in my longing as if it understood, and it mustve

it had to,

its poor bones ached, but not once did they creak, not once did they settle

and it ignored its tired.

that house is not cruel.

it did not abandon, it did not flee

that stroll was not careless nor will it ever be

it is purposeful in its every step,

because somewhere, there is another girl

small and quiet, bold with a box of crayons

and though her cloth may be rougher, her water colder than mine,

she deserves the chance to learn to love, to learn to mend

and to learn what it feels like to be held.

and its odd.

because one day, as i wandered

dipped my palm into water and drank,

my reflection rippled, and the ground shook, and i heard that rare sound again

concrete soles, a wooden frame uncreaking

and when i turned, it was not the same old house

she was dark, and she was small, but she was tired all the same

her windows were cracked, the door swung open,

but she smiled.

she smiled, and i smiled, and though i may tower over her,

rest my head on her stone roof to sleep,

she was new.

she did not house angry men,

she did not house predatory whispers, nor passive threats,

she hears and she listens, to each of my stories, each of my yells,

and i will not draw on her walls. i will not track mud across her floor.

i will write her words, and polish every place my toes may touch,

because i have grown. and she is worth so much more than that.

i will read her burning stories, set her mind ablaze with possibility,

i will offer her smokes, blow her o’s around delicately planted petals,

i will decorate her and make her mine.

i fingered those cracks, and i will fix them.

that door is old, but i will learn the most intricate carpentry,

and i will light every broken bulb with the care i learned to hold, oh so long ago.

she will shelter me, protect my head under her delicacy, stroke my hair with unconditional contentment,

and we will mend each other, this time. and i will call her home.

and if it’s real, she’ll stay.

and she does.