If I’m shaped by all my experiences,
then why am I left feeling hollow?
“Make space, make space!” They say.
There’s more of them to home.
Aren’t you lucky that I’m open?
Open to receive and give and give.
Why am I the space you occupy?
Why am I the space to gather round,
To sing your war songs, your silent cries.
Constantly swallow the gratitude of being the space you call home.
Yet all I want to feel is home again
To feel like I belong in my skin, again.
In this mind, and soul, my home, again.
You move my chairs and bookshelves to make space.
I guess to keep your secrets and threats safe.
I move my bed, My sacred space,
just so that I can keep your dreams
and your fears and that of your enemies,
And as you make yourself comfortable and free,
With all your things.
I start to wonder, but what if this home is still me?
I see your future plans to renovate
I see plans to expand, and break down the best parts of me.
The only plans we should have is,
is to fix why I feel trapped in my own home.
This home I no longer own.
So I’ll take time to rewrite those plans,
One by one. I’ll change the inside space I live in.
Change the curtains back dreamy draping or nothing if I so choose.
Change that footstool from pink to black
Maybe add a chandelier, after I fix that drip, that muted leak.
There will be rules in place if you want to rent my space.
Just gratitude for me opening up to loving you and holding you safe.
Raising your dreams and your children and the dreams of your children.
Sure, I can teach you how to help me sweep these floors.
If you’re not willing to clean, and allow me to live and be free in my own home,
Then there’s the door.
This space, this home, is what I choose to own.
I don’t welcome that which does not value me, anymore.