Wednesdays on One Poem Only are a double feature: one poem here on the podcast, and one more by the same poet shared on Instagram.
The House with My Name Carved Into Its TeethTess EzzyExecutive dysfunctionis a kind of hauntingbut not the pretty kind,not the candlelit ghost girlfloating through the hallway.
No.This thing is a beastwith my name carvedinto its teeth.
Every morning I waketo a body that forgets me.A body that misplaces its own pulse.A body that drops intentionlike a strip of clothingbefore the lover even arrives.
My hands—god, my hands—they go spectral on me.I reach for the taskand the task slips throughlike a secret I’m not trusted with.I reach for the dayand the day folds shutlike a trapdoorand I fall through myselfagainagainagain.
People sayJust start.As if I am not wrestling a monsterin the foyer of my own life.As if the staircaseis not rearranging itselfthe moment I look away.As if time hasn’t been taunting melike a cruel exwho knows exactlywhere my soft skin lives.
My to-do listis a fucked-up funhouse mirror.Every item shows methe version of meI should have been by now.I stare at her—mouth full of apology,spine full of fire—and I want herjust onceto step out of the mirrorand stop pretendingshe’s possible.
I lose hours like loversI was too wild to keep.I lose whole afternoonsthe way some peoplelose religion.Sudden.Violent.
A kind of holy grief.And yes—there is shame.The thick, wet kind.The kind that grows mouldif you don’t drag it out into the sunand scream at ituntil it dissolves.
But don’t mistake me.I am not asking for rescue.I am not writing a tender poemabout learning to love myselfin a haunted house.
I am telling youI am renovating this bitch.With my bare handsand my broken rhythmsand my stubborn, feral hope.
I am ripping down the roomsthat taught me to disappear.I am tearing up the floorboardswhere the shame slept.I am oiling the hingeswith my own sweatuntil the doors swing openlike they’ve been waitingtheir whole livesto let me through.
TonightI stand inside the ruinand I say:
I am done being huntedby my own mind.
I am done apologisingto the ghosts I did not invite.
I am done calling this survivalwhen what I wantis a life.
And somewherebeneath the rubble,beneath the monster’s breath,beneath the chaos of a bodythat won’t hold still—
I hear a heartbeat.Mine.Still animal.Still stubborn.Still learning to roar.
More from Tess Ezzy ↓
- @themoodyproject_ on Instagram
- Poetess Press on Substack
Watch the Second Poem
You can watch and listen to another poem by Tess as part of our Wednesday double feature on Instagram at @rembrandts.cure.
Support + Stay Connected to OPO
If you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.
Two poems. One poet. Let the words keep moving.
