My house,
My house is a wondrously enticing mystery!
My house.
My house has no exterior, but is only built within.
My house grows from a seed, cascading ever inward.
My house!
It is in my house that I am truly free.

In my house, I tear myself from flesh,
Like bark stripped from a deeply rotting tree.
Truly then, I wander as I please,
Moving from one room to another.
And in my house, the rooms shift and weave,
Like facets of a Chinese puzzle-box.

In my house there are many rooms.

Rooms so large they swallow you up,
Rooms so small you can barely squeeze inside.
Rooms that glow with cherished rituals and childish delights,
Rooms that drip with tormented crimes and sacrificial rites.
There are rooms holding glittering stars,
And rooms chalk full of blistering scars.
Rooms that recall the precious womb,
Rooms that enshrine my sacred tomb.
There are rooms in which I can hardly breathe,
And rooms which I can never leave.
Rooms in which time stands still,
Rooms in which millennia tick by like seconds.
There are rooms in which I fear to stay,
And rooms which I've locked away.
Rooms filled with things I couldn't dream,
And rooms in which I've never been.

In my house the stairs are neither here nor there;
They come and go as I need.
It is only in my house that I can truly bleed.

In my house I am vindictive tyrant,
And I am virtuous king.
I am master, I am slave.
In my house I am the lofty poet,
Yet utterly illiterate.
In my house I burn the books I write.
In my house I am God and I am Man.
In my house my soul takes flight,
Soaring throughout the glorious night.

In my house,
In my house I am one.
In my house.
In my house I am me.
In my house!
In my house.