If my heart was a house, it’d be built high with stone walls strong enough
to block all the dangers out, dangers like love, pain, suffering,
regrets, hurt, false hope, and disappointment.
If my heart was a house, it’d have a chain-link fence to prevent anyone from trespassing on the line on which I have bordered my privacy.
If my heart was a house, it’d be built on stilts, one hurricane of feelings and emotions away from toppling over and becoming a floating wreckage amidst all the pieces I tried so hard to keep together.
If my heart was a house, it’d be 600 years old, rusty and creaking at the hinges from all the years of use, misuse, and abuse.
If my heart was a house, it’s be far away from civilization, a little speck in the middle of nowhere and anchored on loneliness and the bitter taste of dead memories lingering in the stale air.
If my heart was a house, it’d be a rundown apartment, messy and disorganized and neglected. It’d also stink from all the garbage and waste that’s piled up over the course of the weeks spent in indifference and apathy.
If my heart was a house, it’d be on fire, my anger fueling the the fiery streaks of bright red and sunset orange that paint and spark up the atmosphere with the life of a thousand burning regrets and the smoky, burning stench of self-hatred.
If my heart was a house, it’d be drowning, drowning in a pool of shame and drowning in a sea of all the words I choked on, all the words I left unsaid until my tongue stopped working like broken clockwork.
If my heart was a house, it’d have hundreds of spiraling staircases and misleading labyrinths because you’ve got no sense of direction.
If my heart was a house, it’d be made of fine china and cheap porcelain, so fragile and easy to shatter.
If my heart was a house, it’d be shrouded in darkness, devoid of light, and I’d be tripping over moldy carpets and rough wooden floors and I’d be grappling for things far beyond my reach, like hopes and dreams and aspirations.
But maybe…if my heart was a house, you’d be home.
If my heart was a house, it’d have a chain-link fence to prevent anyone from trespassing on the line on which I have bordered my privacy.
If my heart was a house, it’d be built on stilts, one hurricane of feelings and emotions away from toppling over and becoming a floating wreckage amidst all the pieces I tried so hard to keep together.
If my heart was a house, it’d be 600 years old, rusty and creaking at the hinges from all the years of use, misuse, and abuse.
If my heart was a house, it’s be far away from civilization, a little speck in the middle of nowhere and anchored on loneliness and the bitter taste of dead memories lingering in the stale air.
If my heart was a house, it’d be a rundown apartment, messy and disorganized and neglected. It’d also stink from all the garbage and waste that’s piled up over the course of the weeks spent in indifference and apathy.
If my heart was a house, it’d be on fire, my anger fueling the the fiery streaks of bright red and sunset orange that paint and spark up the atmosphere with the life of a thousand burning regrets and the smoky, burning stench of self-hatred.
If my heart was a house, it’d be drowning, drowning in a pool of shame and drowning in a sea of all the words I choked on, all the words I left unsaid until my tongue stopped working like broken clockwork.
If my heart was a house, it’d have hundreds of spiraling staircases and misleading labyrinths because you’ve got no sense of direction.
If my heart was a house, it’d be made of fine china and cheap porcelain, so fragile and easy to shatter.
If my heart was a house, it’d be shrouded in darkness, devoid of light, and I’d be tripping over moldy carpets and rough wooden floors and I’d be grappling for things far beyond my reach, like hopes and dreams and aspirations.
But maybe…if my heart was a house, you’d be home.
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