Photo by Scott Blake on Unsplash

This house tells a story
Through creaks and cracks,
A foundation built of kin,
Brick and mortar,
Mixed with bone.
The walls insulated with cadavers:
Peeled and stretched skin,
Sewn together,
Painted crimson,
Bloodstained wood,
A carpet made from scalps,
Chandeliers crafted of teeth.
They glisten in the gaslight lamps,
Old paintings of men,
Sinister looks upon their faces.
I can feel this place.
It breathes,
It whispers to me.
Eyes and ears fixed in dark halls,
I want to become one with it,
An addition much needed.
That’s what it’s telling me:
I’ll be the carpet,
The walls,
The foundation.
A human blueprint.

Disclaimer: The views in this article are those of the author. Prison Journalism Project has verified the writer’s identity and basic facts such as the names of institutions mentioned.

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Ian Shaw

Ian Shaw is a writer of morbid or horror poetry and short stories and is currently working on self-publishing a collection of his writings. He is incarcerated in California, and publishes under a pen name because he feels that his incarceration hurts his chances of being a successful writer.