the city

Real Estate

A/N: I was listening to Facedown by The 1975 if you wanna get the mood of the poem. It isn't really relared to the poem, I just thought you might like to immerse yourself and get the full experience.

If you were to try and get to know me,
I'd describe the process as a real estate agent,
showing you a property you may or may not be interested in.
She opens up the gate for you,
a charming white picket fence,
dazzling and bright.
As she leads you through the gardens,
you can't help but comment
about how she's kept it maintained and well mowed,
like a neat little trophy,
polished to perfection.
You enter through the living room,
it's a topsy turvy yet cozy space.
Pictures of smiling families in shining frames.
Graduation pictures line the polished mantel,
and small mementos are spread around shelves.
She takes you to the kitchen, where the stuffy warmth gets a bit uncomfortable.
You shrug it off, say it's a normal kitchen thing.
The living quarters are next,
and you are taken by surprise.
The beds are made up, yes,
and everything is spotless,
but there's an eerie emptiness about them,
something that tugs on your chest whispering
this isn't home.
Though you are unsettled, you continue the tour,
noticing small patches of curling paint
and worn ceilings hanging dangerously low.
She takes you outside again,
to the back lawn.
The wide area takes your breath away,
but again, something's not quite right.
She shows you the pond,
murky water and thick sludge.
You wonder if anyone's drowned in there,
and truth be told, someone has.
I have.
You cautiously skim the edges of the greenish water,
feeling a lurking presence underneath the waves.
The middle aged lady whisks you away again,
shows you one final room.
The basement, she says,
is the best part.
It's spacious and roomy,
you could practically fit anything in there.
As you descend the steps,
a small voice tells you to run immediately.
But you brush it off,
determined to finish the whole tour.
She smiles as she ushers you in,
and standing in the center
is what you'd least expect to see.
It's me,
in my true form.
Pale and ghostly,
my lips blue and chapped.
My pupils are dilated,
my eyes are empty.
Blankly,
I stare at you,
as a small grin tugs at the corners of my mouth.
Moths have become tangled in my hair
that I've forgotten how to brush out years ago.
I am a mess,
to say the least.
The tour turns into one of those classic Choose Your Own Adventure novels,
if you choose to run,
the doors will shut after you've left,
and the tour will no longer be open to the public.
But, on the off chance you choose to approach me,
or, at least, what's left of me,
my cold hands will gently cup your cheek,
and the secrets of the universe will pour from me.
Because you've stayed,
through all this,
and maybe because I trust you,
I'll let you come with me,
and we can get lost together.
That is, until the next buyer arrives,
and you leave me without warning.