Poetry is very common in literature. We still read classics, (like
Beowulf or the
Illiad)
in class, thousands of years after they were written. It has evolved immensely as the English language has, to the point where there are now poetry clubs and open-mics dedicated to tell stories through this type of writing. This poem
was written on a whim after listening to some unheralded poets like Blythe Baird and Sarah Kay, and I was inspired by how raw they were. I call this poem
Body House.
~
If my body were to ever to be a house, it would look a little something like this:
At the end of a cul-de-sac, there is a house. It is strange, beyond belief, and short, and flat, like the way a city looks from a plane.
It is made of brick and wood, and each brick is painted an array of colors—the wood is white.
The lawn is overgrown with flowers, chrysanthemums, mostly, and vines slither up the walls and to the roof.
People often glance at it and the first mistake they make is that they think it’s abandoned. But the flowers and the paint are too pristine to be unkept.
The doors—they creak. So do the floorboards. But that’s what happens when you tire out a house too much; two years are added to the construction date.
You should be warned that the outside matches the inside.
The bed is unmade, every cabinet is wide open, and so are the windows. I have a habit of keeping everything too open. There were some things people should not have seen. But as corny as it sounds, I can’t seem to leave the windows closed; I have a penchant for bare sunlight.
Even though with sunlight, comes rain, and rain ruins all the furniture.
The last time it rained, it was a hurricane, and it sopped up the floors for a week.
Sometimes, as I walk through the halls, I feel the water seep through the carpet, and they soak my feet. I am reminded that this water reached places dust and cobwebs occupy, places I haven’t dared to touch yet, and I think about all the things I had let in. I think about all the things I had let go.
Those are the days when I can’t bear to stay in the walls surrounding me. It feels like I am standing in cages, shrinking boxes, and I have to step outside.
I stare at this short, flat, colorful, peculiar house for a while. It sometimes takes months to finally open the door again.
When I do, I am greeted by the sound of squeaky door hinges, creaky floorboards, and the bristling sound of chrysanthemums behind me.
I stop and, I listen. The house is whispering, “Hi—it’s been a while. Welcome home.”
~
No Matter The Wreckage by Sarah Kay
(my favorite book... next to A Monster Calls)
