My body is built from

walls of bone.

They have been covered

with wallpaper

in a soft coloured hue.

There are hardwood floors

that run throughout the house.

They’ve suffered some water damage

and have become warped over time,

so walking might be a little tipsy.

There are photos that hang

upon the walls

and there are shelves

covered with nicknacks.

Each one of them tell a story,

a memory.

If you put them all in a line,

they will show you the path

my body has been on.

There are large picture windows

that let in the most gorgeous

amount of light

and they make the furniture,

careworn and old,

look brand new.

There is a washroom

that is covered in black and white tile

that is cracked in a few places.

There is an old clawfoot bathtub

big enough to fall asleep;

there is a book on the tiled floor,

half read.

If you go to the topmost floor,

as high as you can go,

you will find a library there,

a massive room filled to the brim

with towers of books.

The attic seems to go on forever,

filled with books I have read

and books that I have written.

The air smells musty

and is full of the scent of paper.

As I take in the house,

every nook and cranny,

all the cracks and holes,

the doors that don’t quite close,

or the faucet that always drips,

I am filled only with love.

As the sun falls along the wonky floorboards,

filling the house with light,

I realise that I am finally

at home in my body.

I am finally at home

in me.