The House Feeds

The House Feeds

The house waits hollow, wood swollen underneath the rain.
Walls packed tight with whispers, old blood in the grain.
You step inside, think it’s dust on your skin,
but the shiver you feel is the fear locking in.

Each room remembers every scream, every plea.
Painted over, papered up, but it never sets you free.
Windows look out, but the glass doesn’t see.
It’s a mouth swallowing light, and the hunger is in me.

You count every heartbeat, hear footsteps not yours.
See shapes in the mirrors, hear claws in the doors.
Your voice gets smaller, your memory thins.
You search for a window, but the darkness grins.

Something in the attic crawls under your skin.
A weight on your chest that wants to get in.
It whispers of others, of teeth and regret.
You wonder who vanished, but you’re not out yet.

Somewhere beneath you, the bones still remember
the echo of footsteps, the cold of December.
You thought you’d escape, you thought you’d get out,
but the house never questions, the house never doubts.

The house that eats doesn’t sleep, doesn’t shout.
It feeds in the silence, it won’t spit you out.
You came here hoping for something to keep.
Now you’re just another secret
the house eats in its sleep.

It will keep you forever, with all the rest.
The house that eats only wants what’s left.