Once we built the labyrinth, the labyrinth built us.  Every morning, manufactured a sunrise, complete with a little house, a little truck.  Little cats in the kitchen mewling over milk.  My father left each morning and we unraveled against the sink. The pink ribbons on my dress singeing on the stove.  My mother opened the refrigerator door and closed it soundlessly.  My brother in the next room sharpening his knife. The life we thought we owned blurry at the edges. Prone to hidden trapdoors and things we thought were only shadows that daylight made real enough to touch.

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A man builds a house and the house fails.  Ants trail the windowsills and termites ravage the floors. He builds a wife out of cotton and cornsilk, but still she won...

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