The House of Homesickness

The House of Homesickness

There’s a house inside me,

built from the ache of empty rooms,

a place where echoes talk louder

than voices ever did.

I leave lights on in corners

I refuse to visit,

nail pictures to walls

that crumble beneath their frames.

We are good at this -

finding hollow places in ourselves,

and stuffing them

with noise, with names,

with people who leave

like seasons do.

I have poured myself into glasses

that never fill,

found warmth in hands

already letting go.

I’ve mistaken flickers for flames

and called the ashes shelter.

This is the house of homesickness -

not for a place,

but for a feeling

I can’t remember having.

A home I might’ve imagined

when my heart was still unbroken,

when emptiness was a question,

not an answer.

And every time I find a new emptiness

I build another room,

furnish it with temporary things,

call it mine,

pretend it means something

for as long as it takes

to forget why I came here.

But no matter how many doors I open,

how many windows I pretend to clean,

I can’t find the room

where I left myself unseen - 

a ghost in the house
of what might have been.

Reviews

[destiny renteria]

i love this it is very exoridnary and has terrific meaning to your poetry

[M 💕]

Thank you so much !! Thanks for reading this and thanks for your review :)