Tired of Being a Home

Like a ferry terminal is for passing through,

my heart is like a home.

A in-between home where the visitors are loud,

eat all my food,

and tear down the wallpaper.

I am tired of being a home.

Everyone coming in and setting up residence in my spare bedroom.

I am tired of being soft.

Of touching the walls of my heart and having them come apart like wet

cardboard.

I am a cardboard house.

Pretend.

Disposable.

I want to be hard.

I want to say no.

But every time I lose my voice and something else along the way.

I find myself weakening when it comes to you.

I know you're going to hurt, but

my soft heart whispers to me

'maybe he's the one,

maybe he'll bring bricks.' And

I'm listening.

(I so desperately want to be made out of bricks.

I don't think you know

how to lay bricks)