To the contrary, we do not build houses.
We build homes.
Not out of:
Wood, brick, glass, leaves, grass, mud or straw.
We build homes out of the people in it, the words said, and the lives lived in it.
My home though,
Was not built out of love, words or lives.
Mine was built out of struggle, the scabs of old wounds dug out and dug in.
Out of explosions of emotion,
Small moments never forgotten and the most potent:
Pain like tears that warm your neck.
Pain like rain that beats your heart down to your feet.
Staggering, chest gripping, terrorizing pain.
Remembering the pain is part of what mends the scabs and the small moments never forgotten,
To create the home we speak of.
Warmth does not create on its own,
Warmth much like a home,
Is created from the people in it, the words said, and the lives lived.
Or ended.
Am I a product of my environment?
My pain, my pressure, my skin bruised scarred and cut.
I’ve been on my knees so many times the carpet, wood, mud and straw live there.
On my knees for what, for who?
For you dad,
For you mom?
My house was also made of glass,
Made to break glass,
Ready to break glass.
Home is not snapshots,
Its snaps,
Of smoking guns,
Of glass that was meant to break.
Of hearts,
Of gold, of silver and bronze.