Don’t respond, hold my breath, move the sofa away from the wall, and lay down in the gap made between, and hide. And wait. And when they go, poke my fingers out the letterbox. Stretch them wide. Feel the cold of the air. And think, if I left them there long enough, the wolves might come, and eat me piece by piece.
She’s standing in what used to be her bedroom. She’s come back to reclaim what she buried. The car waits outside.
On debt, eviction, childhood, and the thing under the floorboards. On what remains, long after you’ve paid it off.
A road-trip. A haunted-house. A bedtime story. A photo-album. An ‘80s fantasy film. A demolition project. A riot.
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