extremeties.
You walk in to this house knowing you can't touch anything; like moving the setting on the AC would bring about apocalyptic conseqences, or eating the apples means profanity cutting staight to the heart. It's the simplicity of this house that makes it heavy, too deep and startling, like a shaken animal or a wide-eyed deer, You caught me.
In the summer the stillness of the house is momentarily shattered -- the ice breaks and falls in sheets and you stand up a little taller, breathe a little deeper. Your stomach busts on all sides, you're the glutton with sunflowers in your hair and geranium on your wrists. You're living and the coolness can't reach you. The wings are white and the halo is a polished silver.
It's never cold enough here. Still you'll never thaw.
And you'll never be the same again.