Cellophane Sugar

Lift my house up high.
Held above your head.
Jolt. Rattle. Rummage.

And when you're done,
after the unfastened is trickled out its shattered windows
and ripped screens and hanging doors,
promise to let me stand quietly at your side
—where you'll look towards me
just like the first time
and say it all over again;
the way it is when life is mostly hurting
and you can't handle things.

So the story will be.
Or the first one, at least.