We build homes in our bodies,
Waiting for someone to settle into our couches and sleep on our beds,
Waiting for someone to call us a fortress
And admire our palace walls
Waiting for permanence, 
Someone who won’t pack up with the first leaky pipe,
And leave dirt on our carpets and mud on our floors,
And expect us to clean up the mess they left behind. 

We make highways out of hearts,
Planning a long drive on a foreign road,
Planning for the exits to all be in the right places,
Planning on the signs to lead us to these right places, landmarks to remember when we get lost, 
We look for speed limits and stop signs and U-turns, 
Planning for our roads to intersect so we don’t have to lose our way by finding someone else’s. 

But sometimes they don’t want homes or highways. 
Sometimes they don’t want to settle into your house and sleep on your bed and sometimes they don’t want to fix things, sometimes they want things to come fixed, already ready to go. 
And sometimes you think you want to get on that highway, you think it’s a nice highway,
 And you ignore the potholes and cracks for a while because you think things will get better,
But after a while, things start to die and the highway winds through roots and barren trees,
And as far as you can see there haven’t been any signs this whole way and you begin to wonder but you can’t do anything about it
So you just hope the exit you take will be a good one and you jump out and hope for the best,
Crossing your fingers that you’ll get back to your home. 
But when you do, you find that someone has already been there and torn it all up and left you to pick up the pieces of your soul.