Poem: The House In Me

In the back of the woods
is my house.
There are scratches on the paint
of the walls.
The door is wide open,
yet bars and plates of iron try to seal it shut.
The chairs and the tables inside
are fallen over and randomly dyed.
The stairs to the top floor
are merely a crumbled and broken ladder.
Up on the roof, there’s a chimney
constantly venting the mixed air inside.
In the bedroom, there are nails on the sheets
and the closet is filled with warm blankets.
At the far side of the room,
a chest filled with letters sits blankly, and shut.
The garden has shrubs
instead of flowers
and the car has lost its wheels on the way.

Where am I in this picture?
No clue.