What Makes a House a Home?

My skin feels bare. Open and quiet. All walls of my insides on display to the outside world. Eyes peer against my bosom, unaware of who gazes back. I am not and have never felt privacy. The audience surrounding me chills the bones supporting my trusting frame. I was crafted by the hands of man, yet I do not know the warmth of their callused fingertips. My feet doused in the damp earth allowing vines and grass to wind up my aching ankles.

My owner wears a fluffy coat sworn of fox skin as she removes herself from her low-riding black Cadillac. She emerges into my gates and unwraps herself of her mask; choosing to cover my mouth instead. Her steps chant against my teeth as she continues to stomp against my spine on to her next act.

A nightgown of pure deep red silk drapes around her corroding form. She leaves the beams lit; never allowing me to rest my ever-wandering eyes. The scent of alcohol fills my nostrils as a fixture of shadows, gun shots, and a harsh plummet against my wooden halls erupts with a chilled echo. Her dancing feet dismiss themselves from their putter-patter, allowing my heart to lose its pounding beat.

Her final scene played through. My being, once seen with glorious regality, now shattered to a place squandered by misfortune. The same eyes that once glued to my state of essence with hopes of opening the arms of my soul, now leave with fear of ghosts glazing over their spirited orbital eyes. Afraid that I am a bad omen, but is not all wealth?

A bulldozer plummets against my rib cage. My breath hitches as its once powerful lungs bruise and fill with smoke. My once sturdy walls fall around my delicate skeleton while I am being reduced to stubble. I once stood proud, but now I am the meek reality of what she was- of what consumed her.

The curtain falls as my final scene plays out.

- Emma E. Campbell a.k.a your 21st Century Poet <3