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 Teeth

Tess Ezzy

Executive dysfunction

is a kind of haunting

but not the pretty kind,

not the candlelit ghost girl

floating through the hallway.

No.

This thing is a beast

with my name carved

into its teeth.

Every morning I wake

to a body that forgets me.

A body that misplaces its own pulse.

A body that drops intention

like a strip of clothing

before the lover even arrives.

My hands—

god, my hands—

they go spectral on me.

I reach for the task

and the task slips through

like a secret I’m not trusted with.

I reach for the day

and the day folds shut

like a trapdoor

and I fall through myself

again

again

again.

People say

Just start.

As if I am not wrestling a monster

in the foyer of my own life.

As if the staircase

is not rearranging itself

the moment I look away.

As if time hasn’t been taunting me

like a cruel ex

who knows exactly

where my soft skin lives.

My to-do list

is a fucked-up funhouse mirror.

Every item shows me

the version of me

I should have been by now.

I stare at her—

mouth full of apology,

spine full of fire—

and I want her

just once

to step out of the mirror

and stop pretending

she’s possible.

I lose hours like lovers

I was too wild to keep.

I lose whole afternoons

the way some people

lose religion.

Sudden.

Violent.

A kind of holy grief.

And yes—

there is shame.

The thick, wet kind.

The kind that grows mould

if you don’t drag it out into the sun

and scream at it

until it dissolves.

But don’t mistake me.

I am not asking for rescue.

I am not writing a tender poem

about learning to love myself

in a haunted house.

I am telling you

I am renovating this bitch.

With my bare hands

and my broken rhythms

and my stubborn, feral hope.

I am ripping down the rooms

that taught me to disappear.

I am tearing up the floorboards

where the shame slept.

I am oiling the hinges

with my own sweat

until the doors swing open

like they’ve been waiting

their whole lives

to let me through.

Tonight

I stand inside the ruin

and I say:

I am done being hunted

by my own mind.

I am done apologising

to the ghosts I did not invite.

I am done calling this survival

when what I want

is a life.

And somewhere

beneath the rubble,

beneath the monster’s breath,

beneath the chaos of a body

that won’t hold still—

I hear a heartbeat.

Mine.

Still animal.

Still stubborn.

Still learning to roar.

More from Tess Ezzy ↓

1. @themoodyproject_ on Instagram
2. Poetess Press on Substack

Watch the Second Poem

You can watch and listen to Mud on Her Knees, Sky in Her Teeth 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.

Mentioned in this episode:

Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem Only

Write After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.

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