You always fancied our extravagant dinner parties.
The ones where you wanted to be a saint at the door at the start,
But a ***** at the table in the middle.

You welcomed all our guests into this home,
But didn’t tell them what it was built off of.

The years of love, flirting, and dates.
Those were just the bricks on which the foundation was laid.

Then came the pillars of this home,
Which were filled with late night star-gazing, all day text messaging, and random cheap gifts on doorsteps.

The walls went up next, the ones maintained with long conversations.
Talks about marriage, children, and the future.

Our ceremony was the roof,
Proving that we would always shelther and protect the other.

But then came the paint, which was mixed in with fighting and anger.
Decorative furniture picked out of spite and defeat.
Bedding covering nights of tossing and turning bodies and minds.

Then the windows were framed with lashing out and hurtful words,
And the doors out of painful comments and hurting slaps.

And with that, we had really made a home out of this.
A home we were both trapped in.

And now I just sit here and choke on all of this food,
At this extravagant dinner party.

Which I never fancied anyways.