Welcome, come inside.
Don’t be afraid, I’m only walls
and windows and foundations.
You can touch them. Me.
I’m not made of gingerbread
or candy, my fireplace isn’t a secret
oven for me to bake fresh
cinnamon children. Upstairs,
in my two bedrooms there is
no wolf playing dress up,
no sharp teeth, no long claws.
There is a library, though.
My furniture is old but no ancient
servants were transformed.
My teapot is a teapot, albeit chipped.
My armchair is comfortable, yet worn out.
You can check my basement, too.
You will find no monster or dead bodies,
no naked chained grandmas. Only
the boiler and the washing machine.
Here, I started the coffee maker for you.
I’ve been alone for a long time.
I’m only walls, you see.
They are all up. Look at them standing
proud against snow and heat,
keeping me upright under wind and storm,
overseeing the town from my place
at the top of the hill.
We’re alone up here.
And I’m only walls.
Look, how they close around you. Look,
how they breathe down your neck. Look,
the walls you spend a life building in your head
are trapped inside mine. Welcome.