You Can't Make Houses Out of Human Beings


I’ve heard that
You can’t make houses 
out of human beings,
So I will build a home.

I am scraping at my aortas 
to make sure 
there is plenty of space for you
in the master chambers.
The arches of my feet 
have been cleared of cobwebs,
The curtains
on my collar bones
are clean and opened,
I converted my sterum 
into an atrium
I’m breaking down walls
I didn’t know I put up
to make my mediastinum
the hearth for our fire.

I’ll decorate my body 
with our discoveries 
of each other from around the world:
Calves wrapped in Peruvian blankets 
still clinging 
to the starlight we bathed in,
Silk scarves draped 
across the vaults of my ribs,
the same ones 
that gazed down at our bodies
while we were exploring 
each other’s uncharted lands,
My lungs will be filled of 
pictures of us 
so when I exhale 
I will speak the thousands of words
my lips are too shy to say.

I’m not the best homemaker.
When I say we’re having Blackened chicken 
you know I don’t mean the Southern Style dish.
I have a talent for burning water
turning premade cookies to charcoal
and colonizing dust bunnies
into a pack of wolves
But I’m great with interior design.
My arms will be 
the safest place
for you to fall into. 

You gave me your heart
and since home is where the heart is
I will build it just for you.


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