This is Home.

I slid to the floor of this solitary place

surrounded by hastily scribbled memos

on monochrome sheets of paper

and cannot find a singular one addressed to my former self;

they are tucked away in a box at the bottom of my heart

I no longer know this method

of hurting

of healing.

 

today, we dismantle

this plexiglass palace; cutting

our fingertips on shards of jagged glass.

building something that feels like forever:

this is Home.

this is my Home.

 

and In This House,

we lay to rest our demons

of the wintry months; these icy beasts

are no longer our burdens to bear

so we let them melt

like snowflakes; we let them go.

 

In This House,

we promise this world

a window for her brightness

Every Day; throw open the curtains,

curl up in this stream of soft sunlight,

sleep with the lights on if we must.

 

In This House.

there is little room for the girl I once was, unless

she is dash marks on door frames;

measuring just how much we've grown.

 

Love, if we continue to leave

the left half of drawers empty

for ghosts of girls we no longer know,

there will be

no space

to store all of the Beautiful

you've spent your whole existence collecting.

 

This House is your permission to take up space:

Plant flowers of favorite memories,

The walls, painted any color that

reminds you of your best friend’s smile,

fill every corner with the warmth

you hope to never forget.

 

In This House

not of brick mortar, we have built

our first real Home.

entirely of laughter

and love

and all you will ever need.

 

Darling, make Home of your bones;

it is all you will ever need.

This poem is about: 
Me

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