(no subject)

[falter]

From earlier today, in English class.

This is my father's house
full of my father's things
his signature hangs in the cold crisp air
Divine in its own way
and the house feels his distance, his long abandonment
now that this house and all his cold creation
have been molded in the spiritual nature of Him
and the house sits heavily in the thin cold air
awaiting his return, resenting the wait, the arrival, the departure
again.
I am my mother's daughter
my first home was her empty womb
the first felt warmth her body's hearth
though ever since, the embers give their last light
and my home grows ever cold
and from my birth my home decays
into dying embers
in a cold hearth
that in my mother's body turned into
a ghastly would, my home
riddled with a diseased spotty warmth
a mocking fever to soon subside
a wound to survive and grow cold
in the crisp thin air of my father.
I am my mother's daughter
the birth of me the cold decay
of my home, my house
I am my porcelain-cold mother's daughter
I am her cooling porcelain heir
still and silent,
in my father's huge house
listening to the crisp air, barely breathing
just barely, barely breathing it all in
listening for the dreadful slightest crisp sound
of cracking.