This House Wasn’t A Home Until Your Feet Touched My Ground

i fell for the boy who touched me under the desk
but wouldn’t look at me when they were around
because i was me and he was him
and when they found out, he made a fool out of me.
and like a little girl,
i cried and built a wall.
i fell for the boy who looked at me across the room.
because he saw me. and that’s all i wanted. a boy. to see me.
but as we got closer, i burnt him, i wasn’t right.
he was my Romeo, i wasn’t his Juliet.
i cried and built a room.
i fell for the boy who only loved me with my shirt off
and one day,
when i said no, he left.
i built a small door.
i fell for the boy who loved me only a few days a week,
a few days a month.
and one day when i asked for more, he left.
i painted the walls with my silent tears.
i fell for the boy who came and went whenever he pleased,
leaving nothing but empty words, hard kisses
and broken hopes on me.
i decorated the house with the pain he caused.
i fell for the boy who admire my beauty, my softness.
but then when it came to my thorns,
he crushed me with his bare fists
and still demanded the softness he killed.
i nailed my thorns onto the walls as a reminder.
never to trust again. never to show who i was again.
never let a man in again.
i built a house. all on my own.
on the foundation of my pain, my thorns, my blood and yearning.
i forgot the window.
you came along.
i expected you to knock, once, twice. and leave.
i didn’t expect you to build yourself a tiny window.
and everyday, your words, your smiles,
your laughter, your softness.
i remember the light. the lightness of your eyes.
your touch. i never knew it could feel like that.
the window grew.
the more i saw you, the more i discovered your soul.
and slowly you stepped right in and i thought,
this house was never a home
until your feet touched my ground.
it was you.
it was you.
it is you.