Paper Heart. Paper House.

A prose piece.

I build this paper house to feed my delusion. Acknowledge my delusions, I do. Greet them with coffee like old friends. Serve them breakfast at the table in my paper kitchen. I will call it my house; my paper house, but shelter me it can’t. Papers of my inky passion or pain. All the poetry I’ve written for you but will never let you read. I run there in the rain, swim there when it pours. I hide away there from myself. I go to live there in the house I made of paper and pretend the walls are warm. I escape there when the cold dagger truth pierces my dreams and my blood sinks into the fragile floor. My paper house crumbles just like I do.

            But I can build a new one once you leave. I can glue it back together with all the words you say but don’t really mean. I can make myself believe I wouldn’t rather live with wooden walls or satin sheets. The emotions just keep coming in. The papers just keep coming out. And you just keep me waiting for a knock that will never come. And I’ll just keep building this paper house to feed my delusion. I’ll just keep pretending I don’t know that you’ll rip me to shreds as if I had paper skin and paper bones.

Reviews

[RomaJ]

I enjoyed reading this wonderful heartfelt and emotive piece. As all writers can relate to. Thanks for sharing.