We constructed this house, my insecurities and I,
out of the little things I vacillated on saying
and the people I was too reluctant to smile at
because I had already assembled a parti pris.
On the walls, we placed shiny pictures of us;
On the windows (and also our hearts), we placed shutters.
This, however, did not stop us from falling into the arms
of an impostor who went by the name of Love.
Not long after, we became comfortable with the shuttered version of the other.
Soon enough, the house became a home, and when I slumbered,
I had the most peaceful, yet tentative dreams--
except they were not dreams, but fantasies (birthed by ideas)
that I was not willing to transform into ambitions.
The house was a bad artist’s rendition of safety,
an illusion I was naive enough to believe in.
That is, until the roof came crashing down and our home was destroyed.
But the roof only fell because it wanted to know
if I had the strength to hold it up,
and the ceiling only splintered because it wanted to show me
the light and the infinite blue that was my limit.
The ruins of my house told me it was time to leave
because the home my faux lover and I had created had really been a cage,
and our love had only been a set of silver chains.