At the end of my street there is a house
where I can peel off the outer walls
and twirl the paint curls around my fingers.
It has gaping eyes where windows should be;
shutters (decoration for an empty box)
that aren’t the same color as the walls surrounding them.
The house sticks out on my street
like a mole on your face or a sore thumb
or like the time my mother turned to me
with salty cheeks and said, “I love you.”