I have built walls.
Walls made of brick and stone. According to the books and the fairytales these walls cannot fall down. They guard the heart of my home. They guard me. These walls hide me from the view of the condescending minds that walk outside my doors.
I have built a chimney.
Through here I vent out my frustrations, my emotions, and my fears. All things that intoxicate me and bleed me dry. I cry out all the built up tension in my chest and give it a new home. I discard the things I know and replace it with the things I wish to know. I release into the atmosphere all of my wasteful thoughts and ideas. And if you run your fingers through you'd find fragments and ash of things that could be, all the things that would never be.
I have built a dining hall.
Here, I eat. I inhale the minimum nutrients required to live so that my body would not gain the pleasure of self-worth. I try to control the way my body looks so that if ever I had visitors, they'd be pleased to see me. I am a beautiful host. Or so I say to the stuff toys and tea cups I place out in the afternoons. I swear the reason no one comes to see me, is because I have a dysfunctional doorbell that fails to tell me that they're here.
I have built an attic.
It smells of old spice and dust. Nooks and crannies untouched for years. Here I store away the things I think I'll need or the things I'm not ready to let go of. Ex-boyfriends beside photographs of family once hung on my old bedroom wall. Nostalgia stains the wallpaper but not enough for you to want to stick around. Maybe because a happy place is too far away.
I have built a bedroom.
In there I am safe. My secrets, my bones, and I, we are safe. No one intrudes, and no one disrupts. It's just me and the sound of my own voice. Sometimes its gets so quiet, I can hear my brain tick, the wheels all falling into place. In those times I feel so high, a state that only be described as mania. Feeling as if I can conquer the world. Then my head gets heavy, and my feet ache, and I lie down to let the darkness engulf me.
I have built a home.
Sometimes I feel as if it's far too big for just me. I get tired keeping things clean for no one to see. The house is too empty to feel like it's alive. Yet when I walk, the stairs creak and the floorboards squeak as if it has a voice. It demands to heard, to be loved, and to be cared for. And I...
I have built it all myself.
please do!
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