Makeshift Mansion

Anslee Reaves

A broken home built on a fragile foundation, 
dilapidated wood panels collapsing under the weight of a misstep: 
a perpetual victim of misjudgment. 

Ceaseless winds sneaking in those fractured, off-white, antique windows, 
hiding glass under cloudy, lacerated, plastic insulation, 
a familiar endeavor of creating a barrier from the sharp chill. 

Like the water damage decorating my childhood ceiling, 
the memories of my yellowish girlhood leisurely evaporate, 
maliciously staining a dreary adolescence onto my psyche. 

Viciously burning to be remembered, 
I try to extinguish your address from my mind, 
a futile attempt at escaping the blistering memento of your absence.  

From the rusty porch swing to the caving roof, 
pieces of you are scattered in a canopy of remembrance. 
I built avoidance into a makeshift mansion. 

Searching for solace in the emptiness, 
lacking life but enjoying leisure, 
shunning all memorabilia except a reoccurring song. 

I am still unsure of whether I belong here, 
but the music is good.