My first home was a palace,
Grandiose and humbling,
The detailed decoration and the intricate artwork allured me to no bounds,
I never wanted to let it go.
But this was a palace and I, no queen,
And so I left it untouched.
My next home was a condo,
Two bedrooms, one bathroom
With rickety walls and leaky pipes,
But something about the tattered posters on the walls and windows that made me gaze all day and the comfort of a bed well worn in made me snuggle in, hold tight, and never let go.
But my dreams came crashing down when the walls did, burying me deep into the ground
I had to crawl out of the dead and my nails are still muddy.
After that incident, I became wary of the comforts of a home, choosing to stay in rented apartments and hotel rooms.
But then, I came across a bungalow.
Three floors, marbled staircases, well furnished
With feather-stuffed pillows and comforters,
Surely, this home was the one.
The (plentiful) nights that I spent away from it only strengthened my longing, making me miss the warmth of my blankets and the scent of my home.
Surely, this is what it's meant to be
But I was one and the walls were many,
And although the decor was tastefully chosen and the floor was to my liking and I thoroughly enjoyed having it all to myself,
Soon the only thing I could hear were the echoes of my voice bouncing off of marbled floors
They were cold.
Warsan told me
"You can't make homes out of people and someone should have told you that"
And here I was, an architect
Constructing homes out of hollowed shells,
Hoping that they would contain an expectation so large,
That my own body fell short for me.