She found a home within herself
In the hallways of her heart
Walked by many before her
A door wide open from the start
She hadn’t really ventured in
But had let many others come through
And it seemed to whisper the words
‘all this time, I was waiting for you’
She found a home within his arms
In the feel of his embrace
Her head rested on his chest
Kisses placed upon her face
She found a home in nature
On the floor beneath the trees
Her feet curled in the grass
Ants crawling up her knees
She was coming to understand
Home isn’t only one place
But many all at once
Within the halls of your heart space
Belongings in corners
And hangings on the wall
Pieces of the people you’ve loved
And places you’ve visited before
There are pieces of home
You leave wherever you go
In the leaves of the trees
In the people you know
And there is a collection of others
Their own homes within you
Decorating the hallways
With all you know and ever knew
About the Creator
Melissa Faith
Writing has gifted me so much. It has held me. Brought me solace through suffering. It has built me a bridge back to myself.
I hope within my pages, within my weaving of words, you may also find a gift.
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A Little Bit Of God
January 2026 I thought I’d spend the night in neon lights on grainy film but my brother is telling me how an eternity of hell is caused by prevalent peace, and who am I to disrupt such a thing? So I found myself in the same skin with the same sights, wondering whether or not I am one of those– do I feel peace? Do I expect more when it is gone? It being everything. We’re running out of time but the car is belching up something strange and we’ve got God in between our eyes nodding along to every apology and plea spoken for our friends and loved ones– they don’t know any better, they’ll come around eventually. He’s telling me about barbed wire guides around lives and ties and wives and lies and, look, the snow is starting to fall so I guess we better hang up soon. But it’s been too long. We’re building fields of skills and realms of distrust and these moments are only seen now, can no longer be read as words, only swept with eyes upon oil pastels or smudged charcoal. It’s a painting of an evening, like Daniel’s soles in Edgar Degas’ mind, but if anything is just it’s the lack of unrest in skin like His and lives like this– okay, so maybe five hours on the phone is a lot if you have a job and you’re trying to cook dinner, but only one of us falls into that gorge and only one of us believes in what lies beneath it. My brother tells me things that sit in my spirit like half an ounce of prospect and a squeeze of bourn, how he tells God to let me in: despite my sins, despite all the moons in between these calls, despite the burning in both of our throats. I do feel peace here. I also feel that my peace is a subpar window job, a pinky’s strength avoiding blizzards inside the bedsheets. I’d like to spend more nights like this, with contrasting disaster living between a speakerphone, and God finding some space in between.
By Olivia Dodge2 days ago in Poets
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