Something’s wrong. My keys don’t work anymore.
The four walls of my heart is not a cheap motel, a budget hourly affair.
You cannot stay the night and leave behind a messed up bed and me
There’s no housekeeping to clean up the messed up sheets and me
There’s no wake-up call to snap me back to reality
There’s no option to pay with a temporary, transient, transactional love
You cannot come and go as you please and make a vacation out of me.
This is my home.
You cannot come unannounced uninvited unwelcomed.
You cannot tell me how to decorate the place or rearrange my furniture without my consent.
You cannot leave your shit everywhere like your shirt or that toothbrush next to mine –
objects of impermanence misleading me to think that this could be otherwise.
You know, for the longest time I
kept your things exactly where you’d left them just in case you show up
forced my tongue to walk a tightrope because I was so so afraid of saying something wrong
for the longest time I thought I couldn’t live without you.
Nothing’s wrong with your keys. It’s just that I have changed the locks.