I Am Not Sorry

This house is my house
I take full responsibility
for the mess
the dirty laundry
the dishes in the sink
the cat turds on the floor
the leaky faucets
the unflushed toilets
the unfinished basement
and the blood on the walls
the paint chipping
the fences leaning
the pets buried in the backyard
the rusted nails sticking out,
drawing the blood of
the unsuspecting,
the cobwebs
and water damage
the creaks in the awnings
the magazines in the attic
and the demon underneath the bed
the loaded gun
the locked doors
and oh god that smell
the fucked-up food-stained carpet
the car up on blocks on the chipped apart driveway
the blown apart mailbox
the air creeping through the gaps in the windows
and what lurks outside at night
the heart beneath the floorboards, still beating.

the ghosts of everyone who’s lived here before.

I am not sorry.


17 thoughts on “I Am Not Sorry

  1. ha. your house sounds a bit like mine…smiles…i try to bang the nails back down…
    as for a metaphor the house to us…it is good that we at least take responsibility
    and to be strong enough not to be sorry for it…not a bad thing either…

  2. Oh this is eerie. As I began to read it, I thought at first it was just a super untidy person, but when I got to the ending I realized that your poem was much darker than I had realized. Heart beating beneath the floorboard…yikes!

  3. I was also led to think you had written about a very untidy person and was waiting for an explanation. Then the poem took a very different direction, with supernatural hints. Very powerful!

  4. Holy cats. This is a “professional” poem. It might have come to my inbox from one of those “poem a day” web sites. I like the nod to “A Tell-Tale Heart” at the end. Those last few lines are chilling. Great work.

    I’ve just reread it, and I don’t know how I completely read over the blood and the demon without flinching, as if they were as everyday as most of the other lines. But that was your intent. To suck me into your “normal” life, little by little, so that I wouldn’t know you were crazy until it was too late. How very Dexter of you. I love this poem.

  5. this house is a character itself…o my..like walter de la mare’s Listeners…i’m sure a host of eager listeners is there also craving for a rapport with our world…..great lines 🙂

  6. I think yeah this is my house, but the blood on the walls and the beating heart worry me. I guess every house has it’s ghosts. I have a sneaking feeling this poem is going to follow me into nightmares tonight. Vivid write.

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