We are obsessed
with the idea of building homes
out of flesh and blood and veins,

which are those not solid enough
to get through hurricanes,
and tsunami tides that come crashing,

washing us away to the ocean.

I’ve once stumbled upon
a beautiful spot to build mine,
in which I felt secure in its arms

but storms were stronger than the walls
we’ve built, and not once did I stand
a chance to stop the flood.

My home crashed, and got tired of fighting
calamities, no matter how much I tried
to fix it, to rebuild everything.

My home crashed,
my home left.

Now, never build one inside something
that walks, and talks, and utters you promises
and grows a garden inside your soul

Never build yours inside something
too weak to battle against rain.