The House That Knew My Name

The House That Knew My Name

The house knew my name before I spoke it,

before my shoes learned the sound of the floor.

Walls leaned closer when I crossed the rooms,

listening like it had done this before.

There were fingerprints where no hands had been,

pressed into paint that never quite set.

I wiped them once and found more beneath,

layers of people who never left.

The mirror did not argue with my face,

it waited until my eyes looked tired.

Then it showed me someone half a second behind,

as if my life had learned to hesitate.

At night the house breathed in uneven rhythms,

pipes clicking like thoughts I swallowed whole.

Sleep arrived thin and left without warning,

taking things I did not know I owned.

I spoke out loud to prove I existed,

my voice sounded borrowed, weak, unsure.

The walls refused to echo anything back,

they already knew what I meant.

One room stayed locked without any door,

I felt it each time I passed by.

A weight behind my ribs and spine,

a memory asking not to be named.

Morning arrived and pretended nothing happened,

sunlight laid down like an excuse.

I stood there holding what was left of my name,

and realised the house never needed permission.