In This House

In this house there is no room.

There is no room for voices.
When there are voices, there are tears.
And there is no room for a river.

There is no space for space.
Your boundaries gently brush across mine,
as mine do to yours.
Any spaces must be filled up.
With voices, even.
Voices are better than space.

There is no room for breath.
For breath forms a bubble,
and floats just above the reach of children,
and just out of view of adults,
and gently dissolves when nobody notices.

There is no room for maybes.
They were chased out, disowned years ago.
Black sheep of the family, that maybe.
Along with buts and ifs.
There is only one word here.
And you must know it.

Laughter is like a visiting guest.
We make room for it sometimes,
atleast to fill in the spaces between the boundaries.

Objection is a forbidden word.
Words evoke concepts and concepts evoke rebellion.
and there is no room for rebellion,
as rebellion breaks the normality.
and the latter is everything.
It is the food of this house, and the water.
And it is dark, and black.
it drips heavily frop the taps
and lurks in cracks in the walls.
Where you'd least expect it.

Someday these windows will break.
And sunlight will stream in.
It wil break your boundaries, and mine.
and create spaces, where it will dance;

Dance to the nakedness of your word.
And we will bathe in this light.
You can lurk in the shadows.
Or you can join us.