The House on the Hill


The house on the hill got tired of
standing so it buckled at its knees
and kissed the ground a thousand times as it
rolled and rolled and rolled.

The house on the hill used to be a home.
She would return like a wandersome crow,
with her once-white wings turned black in the ashes
of toke after toke after toke.
She replaced the taste of saying sorry with the
taste of smoke.

The house on the hill used to be a home
and he would return like an oil spill,
never failing to catch flame against her breath,
setting fire to himself, smoking her heart out of her chest,
and every night they would
burn and burn and burn.

The house on the hill got tired of
burning so it buckled at its knees
and kissed the ground a thousand times as it
rolled
and rolled
and rolled.

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