strangling house

there was a house in the mountain
with long hairy legs. i slept in there
when i didn't want to breathe.
sometimes you were on the ceiling
& sometimes my gender was a wormy apple.
i tried cheap witchcraft. crystals &
a lady in the attic. summoned demons
who looked at their watch like,
"when can i go home?" the house would
tighten. once huge, then smaller & smaller.
i brought you there & as the place shrunk
you asked me, "why do you want me?"
i used to want dolls so bad. a place to grieve 
a poppet. this is not just a once house problem
i seem to make structures collapse in.
in my parent's house sometimes i lay
like a matchstick, everyone a second
from lighting each other. i do not know
what a lung is for if not for holding breath.
on the television a man is trying to set
a new world record for not breathing.
the live stream is coming from my house.
i open the spare room & there he is, lips shut
& eyes in an ash tray. driving with my grandmother,
she lit her cigarettes with the lighter
in the car. a little red halo pressed into 
the tip. smoke curling its cat tail 
on the car ceiling. she drove me to 
the house with long legs. she said,
"don't tell your mother anything." i think it was her
to taught me to fit in small places. i do not 
want to crush my bones anymore.
i do not want to feel the house running 
away from wolves. instead i want to lay
on the floor in the bedroom & have to float above me
until your hair grows long enough 
to touch me. then, i will pull you down, my beautiful
little balloon. i'll hold you tight. all the witches
will swallow their crystals. feel the guts shine
in the moon's wonky flashlight. 
i knock on all the neighbors doors tonight.
run away before they can answer. someone 
must have a house that gets bigger instead
of closing in on them.