I have a house, one that’s all mine, to love and to hold, and now is not the time to bring us apart by mentioning that it’s rented.
A house where I can do chores when I want, so I chose to do them on time to respect these walls that house me. Sometimes your own path is the same one you’ve been taught to walk on, and rebellion can look like following the rules, only now you choose. You. And you understand why you choose.
A house where I can sleep in without guilt, and I know my meals will be waiting for me as I left them, calmly sitting in the fridge, or remnants on my bedside table. There will be no questions about why I didn’t finish off the plate or why I’ve eaten the same thing three days in a row. It will just be me and my choices, in my house.
This house that I can decorate as much as I want, with whatever I want. All my quirk and offense and artistic understanding can shine through, and I do not have to explain anything or care about leaving marks on the wall.
My house, to play my music or sit in silence. Or spend the whole day roaming about, unsure of what I’ve done the whole day. Mine to be tired of existing in and go look for the pleasures of outside, only to find myself missing my cosy bed with a plate of warm food and laptop playing something comforting as I doze off softly snoring, drooling on my pillowcases, which I will wash and iron and clothe with the pillows I pile on my bed.
This house that has seen me at my all. Cry, laugh, lie, naked, bored, asleep, tired, upset, sad, confused, bloated, excited, me. This house that has seen me grow. This house that has seen me be me because I blend into its walls and feel the floor grow cold under my equally cold feet. Kindred spirits. This house keeps me steady.
This house, my house.
This was such a relatable and beautiful read👏🏿🩷👏🏿