I build rooms around
wounds.
The walls painted with
emotions, decorated
with memories
that hold the past like
a picture in a frame.
I’ve built so many rooms
that my wounds have become
a home.
Like a haunted house that
speaks
of its own antiquity.
History lives in every
room and sometimes,
the ghosts
wander into other rooms
where
they press on a wound—
bringing it back to life.
A place where doors open
and
close on their own.
I can hear them all,
supplicating
from a place where distance
has no gaps.