The House that Hates You
The realtor swore it was “full of charm,”
then the floorboards screamed and bit my arm.
The walls breathe mold, the mirror spits,
and the toilet hisses threats when I sit.
The woman in the hallway dressed in black
whispers Latin while she cracks her back.
The attic door swings wide on its own.
I think the house just claimed my phone.
Welcome home, you poor dumb fuck.
Bought a demon’s den for a couple bucks.
You signed the deed in your own damn blood.
Now you’re married to the walls and the rot and the mud.
The basement hums like a dying choir.
The oven shrieks when I light the fire.
I don’t sleep–something counts my breath,
and the ceiling leaks something worse than death.
They said it’s “haunted” like it’s fun,
like it’s Casper with a loaded gun.
But this bitch built herself to maim,
with a furnace heart and a hunger for pain.
Welcome home, you sucker-bait fool.
Haunted by heat, not your typical ghoul.
The ghosts just laugh as you start to scream.
This ain’t your house–this house owns me.