The bookshelves are falling apart
but the house is somehow staying together.
I nestle in the lonely spaces of the breaking wood
as the novels, all the greatest stories
circle around, pile high, look down
and see me with pity eyes.
There's ivy growing between my legs;
a concrete beauty entwining its way around me
and I can't tell if I have planted it there
or if it's my mind's true enemy.