The house on hill looks like it’s smiling.
An ironic illusion.
Who thought to dig out a flat spot on a hill?
It was obviously meant for landslides, not living.
It does make for a lovely view.
You’ll see, once the swelling, bruises, rage and fear subside.
Or a new family moves in.
It’s clear evil forces were disturbed, woken and buried.
Undead under leftover earth.
Or perhaps they came in the moving van.
The margin of error is critical in such life changing events.
Someone missed the mark.
I wonder if the statute of limitations has run out?
Flowers and fruit trees and people wilt and wither and die. Relieved and gracious to return and reside in the dirt with the buried and the disturbed undead. Home.
Weeds grow like weeds.
Pull them to feed to the family with atrocities and a side of poison ivy.
Seeds of morality must be planted, nurtured and nourished.
Keeping up appearances,
The rules don’t apply here.
Suck the marrow dry.
Earned accolades imply familial success.
Be the best at something, except being you.
It helps to hide the internal hauntings.
Did you make the team?
How many points did you score?
You could’ve done more.
I wish I knew the secret to success. Or the secret truth revealed in ages and anger and attempts and ache. There is no such thing as success, in the smiling house.
Trophies on the mantle trump tenebrous truths.
Mere existence doesn’t meet unknown expectations.
Send me outside, I’ll take the electric fence.
Another benefit of building a house on a hill.
It’s easier to run away down than up.
Roll in poison ivy and hope for immunity.
A failed attempt, too little, too late.
I’m infected with a rare disease.
Requiring consultation with experts.
Sorry, there’s nothing more we can do.
Try to keep her comfortable
And medicate her for life.