house of open yearnings

It creeps up on you, this soft decay. On Tuesdays the words get caught in the dream catchers. My bedroom a litany of strange music and moans. A woman crooning from the Victrola and voices carrying through the wallpaper. Despite everything, there is always ache. All hanging lights and star charts. We huddle under blankets while the ice thaws in my father's whiskey. Vats of face cream like canopic jars and limbs of broken mannequins bending towards the light. All the brass keys lost in my body's curves and folds, the vacuum bags choked with ash. How lovely I sat in the longing while crosses dangled from my ears and the blinds choked out all the light. I'll remember the moans and Marlboros at your lips, Sister's endless collecting, the wooden trays dripping with candle wax and porcelain birds. The terrible terrible pink hearts of their mouths.  
 
https://youtu.be/90pf2WHzuiU