Her Stranger’s House

 

 

A slammed door stares at an unwanted week.
Her squandered selves roam in corridors,
Ransack cupboards,
Scratch at life.

Then tidy up after others who murmur above her sleep,
Stir and disappoint.

She can be found drinking at the precipice of her mind.
Still drinks there.

 

 

 

Skip to toolbar