The House

Someone is in my kitchen.
They are concocting curry but not with the raisins my mother always added.
Someone is gazing out of my bedroom window, hating the view.
They don't see the land beyond and a wild expanse of adventures. There is magic in that view but they only use their eyes.
They do not have Bauhaus up to 11 but instead, have chosen to sully the place I slept with a radio.
My bathroom, where I discovered my face for the first time is now littered with different towels and lotions that belong on adverts.
My lounge- where my rabbit once chewed the wires has the same carpet but different slippers.
My garden, the one I tended with such passion is now a mere after-thought. No one is gazing at the stars there.
The stairs I always slid down are now merely walked upon- the familiar creak lives on unloved.
The garage wall I chalked upon lies exposed. No modern car could fit in a garage that size these days. But they do not erase the past and keep it as a folly.
The bedroom where I flew on my father's hand past the flowers on the curtains is now a shrine to Xbox comfort.
I have been erased.