Outer Hebrides: The House

I see a house through the mist
You know; the kind of house children draw
Four windows
Door in the centre
Otherwise a rectangular box
With a roof

I wonder: is life in a simple house simple?
No fuss, no add-ons, no fancy ‘wouldn’t survive the winter-storms anyway’ conservatory
Two chimney stacks on each gable-end
The smell of burning wood
Warmth that cannot dispel the slight smell of dampness

If you think about it
A house
It’s that simple, four walls
A roof, some source of warmth, water

I am sitting underneath the canape of our tent
Four walls and a roof of sorts
But we forgot the little space heater
Also our temporary abode sways with the wind
Flaps its wings
It hums a song
I heard too often
‘You cannot escape your life choices.’

But for now things are simple

Suffixes for Abuse

The prefixes you have for me
Usually start with fucking (insert derogatory term here)
You used them the moment you knew off me
Not anything about me–just off me

A threat to your carefully spun web of deceit
Of course you feel threatened by me
You cannot manipulate me
You cannot predict me

Your open threat:
‘Hands down I will win.’
Won’t work with me
I am healing–the noun
That means I am ripping off band-aids

Granddad always said:
‘Let air touch the wound to heal.’
Air, and light, and love
You won’t stop me loving them
You won’t stop me healing them

But you, you
For you I have given up
I have let go

And as of now
–after enduring years of your prefixes–
For you I have a suffix
May she rot in hell

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