Lieu
Doors, dying every time they are opened& closed& opened& closed, wishing to be still, hinges speak softly, allow us to be left untortured. They cry they cry they cry. I am alone at home, the pink speckled granite tiles of the kitchen floor know me too well. I feel foreign; there are twelve steps in the flight of stairs, the floor near my mother’s dresser creaks, the wallpaper in the back corner of the living room is half-slightly peeling, the sliding glass window makes a gasping sound when it’s opened, the garage takes approximately four second to close, but I do not know this place. The light of the setting sun reflected off the giant mirror in the room with the grand piano is absolutely breathtaking, but my skin feels cold here; it’s difficult to sleep, and I’m always thirsty. This place only pretends to know me. My face in its reflective surfaces—the TV& computer screens, the microwave door, a shiny, partially brass door knob—it seems kind of scared, vaguely ill-suited and awkward. I have touched these walls for the past ten years; I do not know this place. Doors, dying every time they are opened& closed, opened& closed& slammed, wishing to be still, hinges speak softly, allow us to be left alone. They cry like nothing’s left. I am at home, in this place, alone.
