I live inside a house that I built with my own two hands. The foundation is made of love for my favorite peoples smiles, feathered duvet blankets, the flutter in my heart when somebody holds my hand and the compliments I give myself late at night after a shower, staring into my own reflection.

The four walls are held up by my daily chores, driving to work, doing the dishes, keeping in contact with even the most distant friends and walks around the neighborhood, with a dog, or alone.

The roof, is flimsy, it protects me from tornados and giants who stomp through my land crushing the garden I grow outside. It’s easily blown off, the only part of the house that I don’t have control over. My neighbor told me to build my roof with the love I have for my self. To stare at my hands & appreciate the awkwardness of my palms and long fingers. To brush my hair & admire the fluffiness of my dead ends. To rub my tummy when I’m full & be grateful I get to eat when I want to. I think my roof is so poorly built because I haven’t been able to find these things within myself & when I asked my neighbor if I could borrow from them they told me love from everybody else is inconsistent, easily shaken with one bad dream or the ignorance of judgement.

It’s okay to have holes in your roof. It’s the only part of the house that can be blown off without loosing everything. Just make sure when you’re finding materials that you build a thin one, one that will blow away instead of being so heavy that it caves in.


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