I am a house that you refuse to enter.
Pipes aching in every color, walls that give at the slightest touch and china leaping
from the cabinets smashing itself attacking itself have I
mentioned I hate light touch?
Why must you come so gingerly don’t you
see the rest of them barge in with their metal probes magnetic rays I am rendered
a mess of radioactive secretions and
overripe bruises in that fragile dark light,
the shadow of a shadow, not what you expected
These walls can talk these walls have ears my ears
by the way
will be the last to go you know that useless cartilage
I keep track of these things how could I
ignore my collapsing innards I was
poorly designed, mess of crooked lines and teetering
spine or haven’t you heard what they say at church as soon as I’ve gone away how
the Architect gave up on this one.
Oh He did.
Don’t think I don’t know it.
Don’t think I don’t see you
as I cower deep in the grottos of this
crumbling body as you weave the needle swift and
thread your veins with embroidery floss as you
trespass shamelessly rummaging in the refrigerator reaching
for the faucets expecting
cold water receiving
grape juice and blood.
Lucy Kross Wallace is an autistic writer and undergraduate student at Stanford University. Her work has appeared in Star-82 Review and is forthcoming in Funicular Magazine.