FIXER UPPER

sometimestuesday:

I’ve been watching a
show about house renovations. It’s all about
rebirth. It’s all
about resurrection. See also: “To bring back from

the dead.”
But first you’ve got to be gutted. You’ve got to yank up
the
floorboards. Bare-handed. Bloody-kneed. Pluck the nails out

with
your teeth. Find the bones underneath. Not figuratively. This
house
was built on a burial ground. In the dirt is a city constructed

with
skeletons. Skyscrapers built out of bodies. Out of lives and
lives
and lives. And speaking of lives, here’s one of mine. It’s
yours.

You can have it. When you’re bored, hold it up to the
light. When
you’re bored, squeeze it in your fist and see what
leaks out. If the

world were merciful, if the world looked on
us with pity, every love
would end with a handshake. With a
promise to do better next time.

No hard feelings. No clothes
on the front lawn. Just the knowledge
that happiness has slipped
like a fish from our grasp once again.

Just a laugh like What
can you do?
Sitting
in the remodeled kitchen.
You and me. Remembering how the walls
used to lean to the left.

I’m
gutted. I’m reclaimed. The roof cracked apart to let the light
in.
The sun keeps rising up and up. I have nothing left to give
you.

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