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What Makes a House a Home?

The One You Love

By Bea MariePublished 5 years ago 3 min read
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We built this home. Every day, we collected our hopes and dreams to create our foundation. We spent so many nights watching our TV shows together. We spent mornings drinking coffee and eating chocolate chip pancakes on the living room table. We spent many drunken nights and hungover mornings here. I told you my deepest secrets on the bathroom floor. You broke my heart at the front door. We stacked up laughter, adventures, love, and memories to form these four walls.

Over the years, the walls dwindled because it could no longer support the weight. The paint started to peel away because of the temperature changes. The roof collapsed because we refused to repair it. Even the foundation shifted from the passing storms. At some point, this house was so deplorable it was hard to live in. But I kept trying to paint the walls colors that reminded me of you. I would plant flowers outside to make our house look more appealing. You got tired of rebuilding this home we built for two, so you decided to go build another one with someone new.

I decided to stay with high hopes that I could construct a better-fit home for us, and you would return to me. But, it felt like I couldn't fix this house alone. I needed you.

You were too busy building a home with another woman that you never came back to help me with ours.

As pathetic as it sounds, some nights, I would leave the front door unlocked in case you decided to come home. I left the porch light on in case you needed to see your way back to me. I kept my phone on in case you wanted to call and pour your heart out to me and beg me to let you come home.

You never did.

So, here I sit in this abandoned, half forged house that's no longer home because it was never about the walls surrounding me. It was the way your arms felt like home. Yet, I cling to these deteriorating floorboards in a house that should've been boarded up but somehow got overlooked. The grass outside is brown and the flowers are dying. The windows are discolored and cracked. The lights don't work and the water doesn't run. There are dusty outlines were pictures of us used to hang on the walls. But I still live here in a desperate attempt to hold onto the false depiction of what this all used to represent. I am too afraid to letting go of this house and moving into a better place because what if you change your mind?

Someday, I'll put in new flooring, repaint the walls a hue that no longer resembles you, and mend the foundation by myself. I'll plant flowers along the driveway and water the grass. I'll replace the windows and hang new pictures that don't include you. But this house will always remember what loving you felt like. It will never forget the damage it went through having you live within it.

sad poetry
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About the Creator

Bea Marie

20-something-year-old trying to find the humor in life. You can find me working at coffee shops and leafing through books at any store that has a book section. Real-life experiences are intertwined in every piece I write. Enjoy!

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