when I leave in the morning, the people that live in my home when I am gone have already arrived. I do not know their names. they are barely visible, shadows of people who may be me and may be those that I never wish to see again, creaking floorboards the only sign that they were ever there, but then again, I would not know my own footsteps if I heard them. maybe one day they’ll talk to me, become more than a Nyquil-induced hallucination in my home that does not exist.
maybe one day I will move away and never come back and never worry about them again.
I am at peace.
I have been trapped in this house for too long to hate it anymore,
so I will decorate.
hang eucalyptus over the shower so I smell like my
mother’s childhood. when she comes to visit she will be happy,
and maybe making others happy is all I am good for.
I will hang up my garlands, buy a knife rack.
clean the metaphorical metamorphosis slime from the drain and start to feel a little more normal. isn’t that what you have to do?
build to suit
the neighborhood is coming up
just as I am walking out of it.
I will long for what they have when I am gone but I will not stay.
this is no longer the street I lived on
it is different and so am I.
I am sitting at a housewarming party as my friends age around me
thinking that I will never have this.
not with these people.
Abbie Hart is an 18-year-old poet from Houston, TX currently living in Worcester, MA. She has been published numerous times, including in BRIDGE Mag and Millenial Pulp, she is the editor-in-chief for the Literary Forest Poetry Magazine, and she was previously a semIfinalist for the Houston Youth Poet Laureate. In her spare time, she learns many useless skills and does her best to be like a nice warm soup. Her website is abbiemhart.wordpress.com.