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

am I.

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.