My Home

“You just aren’t a fun person.”

The words slice clean through me,

Like a sharpened pocket knife,

Carving ugly words on the walls.

 

“Well it’s your fault, you have self-esteem issues.”

I scatter to pick up the pieces of my shattered heart,

Hoping he doesn’t abandon me.

I don’t want him to trip over the mess he made.

 

“Jesus, can you stop fucking crying.”

He tears my arm away from my face,

As my pain bursts out of me in one final explosion.

Nothing remains of my dignity.

 

Now that he is gone, there is silence.

It is almost too quiet, because the echoes

Of his actions still remain.

But the stillness is better than the roar of his presence.

 

I open up my door again once again,

To a boy who comes knocking,

When I am not expecting company.

He calmly enters, and decides to stay.

 

I hold my breath as he assesses the damage,

And begins to pick up all the pieces.

The cracks are glued back together,

And the ugliness washed away.

 

I now have a beautiful home again,

So I begin to exhale, finally at peace.

Then as quick as he came, he leaves for good.

Once more, my home crumbles to the ground.

 

I will be the one to repair it this time.

It will not fall again.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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