I'm a single bedroom house. 

I have enough inside me to support myself, but only room for one. 

Strong enough to stand my ground, but fragile enough to fall apart at the slightest movement, I am made of glass. 

My curtains are drawn to hide my luggage, from all except a few. Though when the few approach, the fault lines under my house grow wider, deeper, and more dangerous. 

The ground might as well be a mirror. 

When the ground shifts and trembles, my house uses all it's strength to try and stand tall, enough to call it courage. 

There was an earthquake, an avalanche of change. 

My house shattered.

I brushed off the dirt so the change of heart occurred. 

I was so afraid, I cried myself a hurricane.