the inside of me makes strange
noises in the night. a house
settling around the covered
shadow interior. these days
the lights are hardly on. no
one sees in, the glass is
covered with missing
faces and oil dark as
blood. sweet as molasses.
and my grand staircase
is littered with bodies like
the end of a party. holding
the weight until the roof
caves in on us all.
— “talk about it” J.H. 032126











