Mental Health, Poetry

Poem: My Body is My Home

My Body is my Home
New Westminster house built in 1886.

 

My Body is my Home

My body was a motel,

cracked walls and peeling paint

yellowed with age

and cigarette smoke.

The bedspread, the color of

something you’d find under

the kitchen sink,

was rumpled and misshapen

from the people who stayed there.

They came and went

as they pleased,

staining worn carpet with

mud stained boots.

Often overstaying their welcome,

they left me feeling empty

when they’d gone.

 

My body was a motel,

and I was the ghost

that haunted it.

 

But now,

my body is my home.

I painted the walls brilliant yellow,

ripped up the carpet and

tossed the bed in the trash.

I lined the walls with

paintings and books and

tiny, colorful plants.

I replaced everything that

unwelcome guests

may have touched.

Visitors are welcome here,

but now,

my body is my home.

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