His House

I tried to build a house of silk for us.

Soft walls that would grow with us 

and beautiful windows that allowed light in.

But you wanted a home of steel,

stubborn words and set ways.

So you covered our windows

with lies made of titanium 

and you told me they were curtains.

You put in an iron door that refused to break.

I thought you did all these things to

protect us,

but in reality you did them to hide me. 

When I left I knew that 

everything was wrong.

You sharpened your words like knives, 

and you left bruises on my heart

that match the bruises on my body.

Those bruises shared the same shape

as your finger tips. 

 

You tore down our home,

tearing me apart with it. 

You set the ruins on fire

and watched our dreams burn until 

they were nothing but ashes. 

Then with a smile you say to me 

"I never loved you",

and to this day I'm wondering 

if that was true or not.