It was three years
before I opened myself up 
and dusted myself off.

My body,
a house:
long overdue for spring cleaning;
I pulled up the blinds that had been shut tight over my eyes
sunlight poured in, filling my hallow bones.
I polished my ribs, and blew the dust from my lungs.

A deep breath. 

A new start.

It wasn’t easy,
but my insides were clean. 
Empty. 

It was three years 
before I opened myself up. 
When I did you climbed inside:
no invitation and no warning. 

You began to make yourself at home. 
You moved your furniture into the pit of my stomach- 
the wood rotting.
Splintering.
Decaying.

You climbed my vertebrae like rungs of a ladder
they creaked under every one of your heavy steps.

I bent.

I ached.

You spoke. Pointed words 
ripping and tearing the walls of my body.
Tattered ribbons of flesh hung low
and bowed in apology. 

I wish I could say I stopped you.
Fought back.
Said no. 

But this was not an eviction. 

You left.
 
And by the time you did,
My organs were infected.
My bones were shattered.
My insides were bleeding and bruised. 

I let you into my home and you destroyed it.

I was left to pick up the pieces;
Chaos spanning all directions.
My inside was falling apart:
paint peeling and plaster collapsing. 

But outside?
Outside was left in perfect condition.
Picket white teeth and roses on my cheeks, who would suspect a thing?

No one would bother to open my front door. 
No one would think to take a deeper look. 
Nobody could see the destruction you caused inside my home. 

And now I clean up the mess alone. 

Even after you left I still get your mail.
I still hear you unlocking my front door.
I can still feel your footsteps climbing up my spine. 

And I miss it. 
I miss you. 
My god, do I miss you.

When my foundations crumbled 
I overfilled 
with the debris.
You moved out. 
I went right back to being
empty.