stuff

my furniture hates me.
my rugs are conspiring against me.
my love for the plaster is sadly unrequited.
my papers sell my secrets when my back is turned.

in the middle of the night i am drawn awake
by the sound of the wardrobe breathing.
the clothes i have worn for years
slip off me no matter how tightly i fasten them.

i came into the world naked, squalling, and alone.
everything i’ve owned reminds me of that fact
at every opportunity. there’s too much of my life
in my stuff and now i can’t get it back.

my friends are noncommittal
when i tell them this.
my girlfriend has taken to kissing me
only when i keep my mouth shut,

so i’m stuck with the company of inanimate things.
i ask the ridgepole, up there under the roof,
do i even matter to you down here? it remains silent.
it knows the wrong words will bring the house down.