Hill House

Updated: Mar 11

Do you see the clip-in feathers in my hair, pink like birds in lakes

How about the heeled boots, I wear them everywhere

How about this blank face? It hides secrets--or nothing at all

I see the lightness of your eyes bounce all over me

A sculpture made of brown clay, in the image of scorned Mother Teresa

Water me so that I can mold, set fire in the kiln to fix my chipped parts

You’ll find that you can change my skin and leave the mind intact

Oh, in the heat of the night, I pray for your forgiveness

I have no family, no ring bearer, no pew bearer, no forefathers

Imagine: the slide of my cold fingers along the inside of your shirt

I could hold you under the avalanche, faithful heart of mine

As fast as it could fall from me, I’d make it cover the house on the hill

Honey, the sides of my lips quirk on their own, I have trained them so

The platitudes, stolen from friends, I hear you, I see you, I feel you

My man who calls himself a martyr, who took in a knuckled woman like me

Who braved the force of my winds, who looked deep into black void

And found something clean. Angel, have you ever thought

That too much fire will kill a person like me

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