Photography by Zoë Collins (she/her)
My hand drifted up against the wall
Feeling each subtle groove and bump
Interact with my fingerprints,
As if the wall was telling me a story,
And I listened and told a story back.
The wall said it knew this feeling:
Being touched by those
Who only ever visited,
Never really there to stay.
It could be months or years,
But the families who stayed
Leaving behind only their memories.
The wall could remember it all:
Every picture hung upon it.
As my hand fell to my side,
The wall let out a creak
As if it was screaming:
Don’t leave me like the others.
I reassured it,
Letting my hand glide up against the wall,
Letting it know that that feeling
Was one we both shared.
I, too, could remember
Every word left in my ear.
I recalled when my hands
Traced the spines of my lovers
As I let these men come inside me.
(passively, like the house)
I would be their new play thing
For a month or two,
Maybe even a year, until
They got bored of me.
No matter what story the wall and I shared,
We had the same ending:
We were just vessels for other people.