inhabitant

The body as a house. The head, a roof. The skin, some siding (maybe some bricks). The feet, the foundation.

Your dreams, your betrayals, your hopes, your disappointments. They emerge from this house and wander into other homes, kicking off their shoes and making themselves comfortable. Maybe they open up other fridges and stand there, hungry. Maybe they bathe in foreign baths, watching the water rise as they sink deeper. Maybe they become careless and leave the doors unlocked when they sneak off into strange sheets and even stranger dreams. Maybe they'll come home if you leave the lights on.

But keep it dark. Don't chance it. Let the dreams, betrayals, hopes, and disappointments continue to wander and be lost in their own journey. They aren't yours. They were never yours.

They were occupants, merely tenants who were usually late with the rent. Be your own landlord. Be selective. Begin to house what will flower, not what will wilt on windowsills.

The body as a house. The house as a sanctuary. The sanctuary, a beginning.