I used to be a very nice house
or at least I thought I was
but I learned a hard truth:
I’m not a home on my own.
In fact, I’ll tell you
I’m not even a room.
At night I am building
new walls
tearing down old ones
patching places once gaping
wide and wind blown.
Everything hurts.
Nails stabbed into siding
doesn’t sit square
ramshackle and wasted
despite the persistent efforts to get it right
and straight
and level.
Everything has been blown apart
But where is the storm?
No splintered studs
broken beams
collapsed chimney.
Stained glass centerpiece
partially finished
and lacking all originality
laughs
as light struggles
to illuminate floors
empty.
Nothing feels good
and I’m always behind
despite how hard I try
to build myself back up.
Once I was a house
and I never thought it would be any different
but you flew away
and took your bones with you.
At night I am
illuminated
three walls
and empty.
