Shownotes
Wednesdays on One Poem Only are a double feature: one poem here on the podcast, and one more by the same poet shared on Instagram.
The House with My Name Carved Into Its Teeth
Tess Ezzy
Executive dysfunction
is a kind of haunting
but not the pretty kind,
not the candlelit ghost girl
floating through the hallway.
No.
This thing is a beast
with my name carved
into its teeth.
Every morning I wake
to a body that forgets me.
A body that misplaces its own pulse.
A body that drops intention
like a strip of clothing
before the lover even arrives.
My hands—
god, my hands—
they go spectral on me.
I reach for the task
and the task slips through
like a secret I’m not trusted with.
I reach for the day
and the day folds shut
like a trapdoor
and I fall through myself
again
again
again.
People say
Just start.
As if I am not wrestling a monster
in the foyer of my own life.
As if the staircase
is not rearranging itself
the moment I look away.
As if time hasn’t been taunting me
like a cruel ex
who knows exactly
where my soft skin lives.
My to-do list
is a fucked-up funhouse mirror.
Every item shows me
the version of me
I should have been by now.
I stare at her—
mouth full of apology,
spine full of fire—
and I want her
just once
to step out of the mirror
and stop pretending
she’s possible.
I lose hours like lovers
I was too wild to keep.
I lose whole afternoons
the way some people
lose religion.
Sudden.
Violent.
A kind of holy grief.
And yes—
there is shame.
The thick, wet kind.
The kind that grows mould
if you don’t drag it out into the sun
and scream at it
until it dissolves.
But don’t mistake me.
I am not asking for rescue.
I am not writing a tender poem
about learning to love myself
in a haunted house.
I am telling you
I am renovating this bitch.
With my bare hands
and my broken rhythms
and my stubborn, feral hope.
I am ripping down the rooms
that taught me to disappear.
I am tearing up the floorboards
where the shame slept.
I am oiling the hinges
with my own sweat
until the doors swing open
like they’ve been waiting
their whole lives
to let me through.
Tonight
I stand inside the ruin
and I say:
I am done being hunted
by my own mind.
I am done apologising
to the ghosts I did not invite.
I am done calling this survival
when what I want
is a life.
And somewhere
beneath the rubble,
beneath the monster’s breath,
beneath the chaos of a body
that won’t hold still—
I hear a heartbeat.
Mine.
Still animal.
Still stubborn.
Still learning to roar.
More from Tess Ezzy ↓
- @themoodyproject_ on Instagram
- Poetess Press on Substack
Watch the Second Poem
You can watch and listen to Mud on Her Knees, Sky in Her Teeth by Tess as part of our Wednesday double feature on Instagram at @rembrandts.cure.
Support + Stay Connected to OPO
If you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.
Two poems. One poet. Let the words keep moving.
