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I'm a corpse. You wouldn't know it from the breath I draw and my heart that beats, but I'm dead inside. As dead as a body need be to be no longer among the living.

I'm a house. You wouldn't know it from my biology, but these bones are foundation, and my muscles are boards, my skin is a veneer, and my soul keeps this house cold.

I'm haunting myself. My mind whispers, wanders, and wonders. The ghost that would normally be what's animating me has left. That's why I'm dead. That ghost hasn't gotten out, though; it's only left me alone. It still inhabits this house. It's the creak in the floor boards, the stressed wood in the walls, the chipped paint, the leaking faucet, all of the background noise that draws your attention on long cold nights to bring to the forefront all the damage done and reminds you just how ineffectual you are in the face of all of the wear and tear. The problems you swore you'd fix have piled up, the faults I swore to fix, but it's human nature to find a workaround instead of solving the problem. Do you really need all 10 fingers?

So I've got this old soul that has abandoned my dead body so that it can haunt my house and taunt me with all my failures and it grows, because I'm feeding it all my memories. I'm just so wretched because all I've ever wanted was to be loved and I've never been good enough for the duration.

I LET YOU INTO MY HOUSE, I cleaned out a drawer, I made room for you, so when I kick you out because of what you've done or when you leave because of what I can't do, every room is tainted by what WE'VE done. Not just anyone, but everyone. They come in and leave with parts, so I'm left with pain. I much rather bleed, heal, and scar than to be left like this.

Perpetually incomplete.

If there's anyone I think can fill me, It's only too soon that I find that I'm much to small. I've been tearing pieces from the outside to sturdy the center. When someone comes along and they make me feel like I'm on fire just below my skin, that fire could burn my ******** house down.