I’D MOVE ACRES FOR YOU

A home that's sound proof. 

Four walls occupied by a monster. 

There's a white picket fence, gardenias and poppies scattered all over. 

Grass cut clean and the most exquisite china.

Plates that could scorch you but lie with their lifelessness.

How can you know a home dressed up so beautifully to be so hideous.

A home with no flyways or eyebags in sight. 

A roof caging in tornados that emerge at night.

Something meant to be unshakable. 

It sits there depraved 

with windows laughing mocking everyone who walks past. 

A “home” so absent it echoes. It echoes. 

I swear.

A dog whistle.

Grief whimpers and shouts.

The pariahs skip ahead. 

Going to their homes.

Residences built out of titanium.

You know the homes that glisten in the sun as if they are unearthly? 

Wide enough to accommodate your nights but snug 

enough to make them feel present. 

This is the mansion. 

It's only 750 square feet.

With a few washrooms, hella decor and a room just for living. 

It makes me think. 

Is a home truly wood or glass?

It’s people, communities, cafes, libraries, clubs,

universes on street corners, chairs, classrooms, desks,

waiting rooms, benches, restrooms, restaurant booths,

pool chairs, jacuzzis, and theater seats that allow you to 

soak into a story and wash away the squalor of your life. 

Where you get to think the way that you do.

A ticket to keep because you finally purchase your

existence with disobedience.

Yet you're not in a cell.

This.

This seven hundred and fifty square feet? 

It cost a fortune to those who haven't looked in the mirror. 

The home could be ours. 

Together. 

You and me. 

Me and you.

You and I every few years, we'll repaint and sometimes 

the door will be yellow and when I compromise

I'll let you make it abstract. 

And even when it's stunning on the outside so much so 

that it glistens like it's surreal that won't even hold a candle to the sanctuary we built within. 

Where whispers are heard and met with hugs

and apologies aren't once in an eon. 

My door is purple right now. I bought the paint myself. 

It’s neon.

It smells like lavender. An aroma as inviting as honesty. 

The truth seeps into cracks of wood that once

belonged to our family tree. 

I promise you. 

In this house? 

We’re free.