i lived alone in a wooden heart

the ceiling leaked on the first night i moved in.
i stood for hours watching it before i did anything.
waterfall gushed from bathroom heaven
to the floor. everything soaking.
the drowned legs of centipedes. tell me god
who was the first woman to invent a roof?
when the rain came did she think,
"i am betraying my father" or "i am thristy"?
sometimes i crave that kind of alone again
that the apartment in the mountains gave me.
how it turns every organ into wood. 
blood as shoelaces. watching the future mildew
& rot. how water is always a story of washing away.
of exactly how we will depart.
the tiles warped & sung. my bath towels
turned into stomachs. i thought o fishbowl life, 
give me the cell phone reception i used to have 
in the big molten city or at least a wire into 
the golden eyelids of the ghost deer. 
i watched a tutorial on how to stop bleeding.
pressure. there is no way to put pressure
on an open sky. i let so much water pour.
finally, i called the landlord. 
she had a can opener voice.
she sent her son who crawled on the roof.
removed leaves like clots that were blocking the gutters.
he said, "it is a good thing you called me right away."
i reminisce about a timeline in which i never call.
instead, i let the rain consume me. live like
a mercreature. water through the whole house.
twist & bend. wood turned to mush.
all my organs, little swamps. the crawling bugs
that come & do not ask questions.
i know i should not be left alone
but o how i crave it.