The Blue House

I stood in Frida’s rooms

and cried for the bed

that held her broken spine,

the animals at her feet,

the father who stayed near,

the house filled with hands

to carry the weight of her grief.

I cried because I do not have that.

No house to collapse inside.

No partner to steady me.

No lineage of wealth

or rooms of rest.

Only my own strength

and the endless stitching of myself

when I am torn open.

I want to go home,

the child in me sobbed—

not to a place I have known,

but to the place

where it is safe to fall apart,

knowing I will be held.

Knowing all the fractured luminous parts

will be gathered within a safe container.

Maybe that home is not behind me,

not in the family that never caught me,

not in the walls I have already left,

but somewhere here,

or somewhere I am building now—

brick by tender brick,

clay by trembling hand,

word by burning word.

I want to go home.

And maybe home is not a place,

but the moment

I no longer have to hold it

all alone.