the house of cards is standing.
i get dressed. answer messages. remember what needs doing.
when someone asks how i am
i give them something usable.
nothing they have to carry home.
it takes everything to keep it that way.
sometimes i want to overturn the table.
pack a bag. disappear without a word.
get drunk. drive too fast on the highway.
take something hard and chemical and unforgiving.
leave something on my skin
that cannot be explained away.
anything that cannot be put back where it belongs.
instead i lie in bed and twist beneath my own weight.
no room left in my body for what is happening inside it.
something damp behind my ribs.
black mold working through the walls,
into the soft places.
my skin is doing its best
to keep the smell in.
from the outside
the structure is sound.
in the morning there is a lump in my throat i cannot swallow.
i stand under hot water and scrub myself clean.
my face. my stomach. between my fingers.
everywhere i can reach,
pretending cleanliness and control are roughly the same thing.
the water runs clear.
i get dressed. answer messages. remember what needs doing.
the house of cards is standing.
by evening the damp has returned
the first dark spots beneath the fresh paint,
i know exactly where they will spread.
tomorrow i will wash again.