Oh, The Brick House off old highway ninety-nine. 
My time with you was exceedingly fine 
But too short, I often say.
Although, I know if we had stayed there longer
The memories and feeling would be darker.
Yes, some bad things happened there, but only on the outside.
For behind the bricks and heavy wooden door 
There was no need to walk on tight lines or hide from a fight.
When I imagine heaven, there's but one place in my mind-
The Brick House off old highway ninety-nine.

A fairytale scene of a brick cottage sitting atop rolling fields
Two old barns with owls in the rafters and paint peeling from the wood
Silos that seemed taller than sky-scrapers I’d never seen
Big trees with their old arms outstretched to the wide open sky
The tulips and daffodils, the grass that was always green 
Big brothers to protect me
A sister to calm my nerves
A niece and nephew that taught me how to share
And a mother who let me sleep in her huge bed whenever I was scared.
A dog and cat, Shelby and Charlotte,
Taking turns chasing each other as if best friends
Instead of evolutionary enemies.

All living under the same pointed roof
Watching Scooby Doo and eating homemade food.
A small cozy fireplace and
Tall bookshelves that lined the staircase
Toys and imagination to
Take me anywhere my mind could define
But where would I rather be than
The Brick House off old highway ninety-nine?

Seven to eight years old I was
Preparing to be baptized
Learning about right and wrong 
What happens when you die
Mom said everyone’s heaven was different- personalized.
So everyday I wished The Brick House off old highway ninety-nine 
Would be mine.

Why do I keep relating everything back to when I was young? 
I’m stuck there. 
Maybe it’s because when I was young I was always fantasizing 
about being an adult 
on my own 
how I would live. 

And now I am there and wishing I could go back. 
I could tell myself to live how they are.

How I am.

I would tell you the things that happened to you aren’t okay and they aren’t normal. 
It’s okay to feel bad. It’s okay to feel angry and worried and excited. 
It’s okay to express those feelings. 

Don’t be so scared of dad. 
He seems all powerful right now, 
but he’s not. 

Mom shouldn’t tell you so much. 

You don’t need to be worried about everyone all the time. 

Feeling like you’re trapped 
under a mystical dream 
where everyone’s bigger than you 
and they’re so tall your voice doesn’t reach their ears- 
If it’s lucky enough to reach your throat. 

You’re view a fisheye lens from the ground 
and everything moves so 
slow. 
All you hear is their words, voices, and tone. 
You hear their cries and their yells and their whispering and their scolding and their mocking and their worries 
and you wonder if they’ll hurt each other 
You wonder who will be sad and who will be angry and 
how will they treat you because of it?

How to play the part of happy, easy 
child even though you don’t know how to be close to him and 
you’re worried about her and 
you’re always wondering when the next thing you let slip 
will turn into a day that she designs 
to make you think and wish 
that it was all a dream.

I would tell you that it’s not fair. 
You didn’t get to be a kid- 
you tried. 
I tried. 
I cried about growing up. 
If it’s anything like I’d seen, I’d never want to grow up.

But I’m here now and I’m doing it. Somehow,
I’m growing up.

You wish you had never touched the tree, but that’s impossible. You were born in the tree. At first, you liked the sap. It was comforting and familiar. As you’ve gotten older, you almost hate the sap now. You’ve tried for years to get it off, but it is everlastingly persistent. When you get hurt you’re horrified to see that your blood has turned to the amber adhesive.

Occasionally, the sap is so sweet that you don’t care that everything sticks to you. You learn to cherish the things that cling to you. They must be there for a reason. It’s good to love. Sap is the nourishment for the tree. Why should it be any different for you?

The house is eerily quiet. I’ve never heard it this quiet, I think to myself, not like this. As I walk throughout the house I notice pieces and fragments of the past. Leftover crumbs that were forgotten during the quick and messy separation. I still know where the floorboards creak but I move slower, like I’m in someone else’s house. Because I am. Am I? My movement reflects my uneasiness when I stop short and let other people go ahead of me. I feel like a ghost, haunting a home that used to be mine.

Skin that has an earthy, moldy, green tint to it. Trapped eyes. Tired eyes. Yearning, pleading pupils. Shuffling. Shuffling. Limping. Dragging. Torn flesh and a timeline of wounds, some old, some new. Slanted posture. Aching tendons, tight from holding heavy limbs. Moss growing on worn denim. Creaking joints. Constant pain, either mental or physical, becomes a persistent dull throb.

This is based off of a zombie character that I’m still fleshing out (pun intended lol). I’ve realized that recently the characters I’ve been creating are based off of outfits/makeup looks that I like to wear. So yes, I cosplay my OC’s I guess.

As an ocean I felt free. Open to express my emotions- whatever they may be. I felt powerful, immovable. I felt happy, blissful, even, just… being. I could be eerily calm, or produce tormenting, thrashing walls of water in giant waves. I felt a maternal feeling for the hosts of creatures living within me, and the people that live off of me. I felt disgust and anger and a deep, sad, horror regarding the big grey industrial buildings and companies that dump humanity’s discarded garbage into my veins. I felt almost eternal.

I’d very much appreciate anyone’s thoughts or interpretation of my work/art! I’d also appreciate any constructive criticism on my writing.

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