Paper houses
In paper towns
Are made out of thin air
Blown into ancient wounds.
Doll houses
And perfect smiles
Are made to house vacant souls.
I spend my days
Learning the anatomy of the old.
I read her eyes for omens foretold
Her figure unfolds as
The girdles
Around her breathe
Breaking houses and bonds in their wake.
Does not mean
She has awoken.
I only sing
Of changing clocks
And moving trains
And tides that never return.
I think of Betty Draper
And even as those around her
Solve her like a cheap puzzle
Expensive liquor in crystal glasses
Served by her.
I too betray her curls
When I look at mine
And try not to think
Of my paper house.
Here lies Betty Draper
And how easy it is
To see through them now.
Little people made of paper
Under flimsy sheets on filmy streets
It all comes crumbling down.
©Shweta Bhat

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