A House Is Not A Home Poem by Maya Hanson

I always miss you more when
I invite you back in,
when you pass through the doors behind my eyelids.

You're an unwanted houseguest…
I accidentally called you
drunk on a Saturday night,
you've taken up all the couch space
and you just won't leave.

I don't think about
spending my entire life savings
on one glance into your eyes, your mind
until I unconsciously lean on your doorbell for too long.

Your heartfelt apology answers the door,
halfheartedly, in an old nightgown
It doesn't need to impress me,
it's done that many times over
before I learned it was just an afterthought you built
to keep me around, hold me at arm's length
and let me fall to the concrete when I'm too heavy to hold.

It doesn't reciprocate, it doesn't invite me in
I tell it I didn't mean to include you
on the invitation I sent out inviting the world to my bedroom
where all I can do is try to escort you out the door behind my eyelids
But apparently I did.

You're stubborn, you want all the information
but you don't want to waste the few minutes
so you don't show up,
send spies to make sure I still open the door for you
Don't want to waste the few minutes it takes to walk down the street that would draw out too many flashbacks,
don't want to waste a little courtesy on me,
I've never been invited back to your house.

Despite that fact I let you in
I echo my past mistakes
by letting your memory in

When I shut my eyes
The door's braced with the chairs I built
staying up all night trying to find wood to sacrifice to your flame,
keep it from burning everything that matters to me
But you still somehow manage to pick the lock

I invite you too many times a moment
into my living room, my table,
you clean me out of saltines and sanity
but I won't let you through the door to my bed
there's too many memories there
you've left a towering pile of dust on the carpet

And still your ghost haunts the house in my head
You won't leave
You think you belong here
But a house is not a home.