“Dwelling” by Cúnla Morris

I was told that the only home
I could ever have
was a never-ending you.

And sure,
sometimes it was nice –
when warm light leaked on us
as we lazed about for hours,
But times became sour,
and all we did was ignore ourselves.
Everything was never enough.

And I stayed in this rhythm,
like a deathly bath,
slowly getting hotter and hotter,
because you tricked me.
You whispered of rings
and anniversaries
and how you must consume me,
until I started telling myself again and again:
“This is my only home!
It doesn’t matter –
my dreams, my work, my youth,
my self, my self, my self.
Love him, like him, whatever to keep my home.”

But this was not my love,
this was tolerance.

And home is for love,
And love is for waking,
And love is for working,
And love is for dreaming.

I am rearranging every home you invaded:
the body, the bed, the house, the city.
I am swallowing the earth whole
just to make it my own again.

You could never have been home.
It was within me all along.

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