Humanity fears itself,
differences are seen as failures,
and scars are seen as damage,
but I’m no broken house,
I’m just under construction.
My windows may be broken,
the walls scratched and peeling,
but sometimes love can be an adhesive,
that holds each dangling piece, just in the right place.
My house is built of scarred wrists,
and old insecurities clinging to my grip,
attached to weak crippling hands,
with nails beat to the bone.
My house is made of skin so thick,
it was cut with sharp objects till it bled dry like weak prey,
but love turned my gashes into scars,
and I still stand here today.
My house is a jungle of wounds,
wounds that fought back and told me to heal,
scars that cut deep,
but have finally sealed.
Humanity taught me about love,
how not enough of it exists,
and how its the only thing we can truly give,
so it’s become the glue,
that made my crumbling house into home.
