this house isn't made out of
a mess. this house is
made out of:

a sinking bathroom floor
because she sighs and i

lose count. shower curtains
you need to water and rust
that doesn't wash out

of the tiles.

it is made out of:

a telephone made for hanging
up because she doesn't
want to talk to her sister.

and mirrors to remind you
that

you are a beautiful

broken


thing.

it is made out of:

sorry notes and scribbles and
a windy day. it sits next to
the other houses made of

secrets and sorrow and stories
and rooftops and bathroom
tiles.

it is made out of:

kitchen tiles, too. they are
black and white and white and
black.

an under the bed, where we used
to kiss and dust and more dust
that keeps coming back

when you clean it.

it is made out of:

coffee stains and peeling wallpaper
and a cracking ceiling where i
hang my stars.

it is made out of:

why did you forget to call your
mother? and

why did you forget to hang the
washing out?

yet again.

it is made out of:

a lemon cake all gone wrong because
you forgot to read the recipe or
maybe you forgot how to read

all together.

it is made out of:

you and me and him and her and
materials i don't know the name
of. and its got an orange

rooftop and a white ceiling and
there's a crack right above my bed
that i look at before i fall

asleep and you tell me you're
going to fix it, but its been
there since we've moved. and you

say we're going to fix this but
its been like this since we've
moved. its been like this

since

five years ago, two minutes ago. its
been like this ever


since.