I was always worried this room would stay small,
and I’d never know how until the end of it all.
The stray sharp edge was enough of a reason
when the reaping came by every season.
Raise the curtain and let the spotlight poke through,
the yellow bright shining on the caverns under my eyebrows.
It’s another day making love to a make-up kit,
making up a made-up expression to make a false perception.
Read off the notecard tucked under the mirror as the bad shapes reappear
and repeat after the repeat that this is not defeat:
These are only the days that fall short of expectation when set too high,
the constructed sun of last night’s promises singeing ambitious wings.
A nonexistent ring is a victim of an unbalanced floor raised to the second story,
the roof locked in, forced to complacency by owner’s hand.
The faults in the foundation never left the bathroom mirror.
The cracks in the framing were always on the decaying expression.
I remember walking through the passages in this ghost-town of a house,
never noticing the process of the walls as they had become so tall.
So suddenly it seemed that scorched limbs were backed against shrinking borders.
With a back perpetually against a brick face,
I’ll place blame on the runaway builder,
tucking behind the shovel, the scythe, the tools of the trade,
forgoing the plan of questioning the lines carved in the concrete.
The faults in the foundation had been there for the entirety.
The reason of it all at the end of it all runs in the wooden veins of my frame.
This space so small when at the final bow was the construction of these hands.
Like a planet orbiting, the place where I was will always return in the passage of time,
And spinning as fast as I was, trying to get dazed and fall out of order,
I got my wrist stuck on a stray edge and felt the floorboards creak.
( ❤ Mitch)