House of secrets: a poem

You are covered
with colored clapboard siding,
a barrier to the world outside,
with wavy glass windows for eyes
and a frozen front door
that leads to the white-washed walls,
worn like a wedding dress.

Entering, fear slowly peels away,
like layers of paint
on a hammered tin ceiling,
letting new creep into the center room,
where an antique bed,
covered in a quilted cocoon,
holds in the heat.

You surround me with your
wide-planked floors of pine,
your thick porcelain features
and steel fixtures that shine,
despite their age,
stained, yet sturdy.

For you are a haven,
where lovers come together,
where first and last breaths are inhaled,
where screams of joy
and pain still echo.

House of secrets:
your stories are not mine to tell,
but promise you will remain steadfast,
protective of your inhabitants,
present and past,
your memories not for sale.