The age old advice of not making homes out of people.

This is the one thing they made me repeat after them. 

“Don't make homes out of people”, 

“Don't make homes out of people”, 

“Don't make homes out of people”, 

“Don't make homes out of people”, 

What they conveniently forgot to tell me was to not become a home for somebody.

Don't become a home for someone who thinks the warmth that radiates inside the house  is a blessing from the sun and not your passion that keeps the fire alive. But I did just that. I made myself a home for someone who was looking through the window to stay for a night and I, in my naivety,  built them a house with the exact specifications they wished for because why wouldn't you become a home for someone who stood outside the door everyday despite the rain and waited patiently for an invite to come in. I painted the walls yellow and opened the windows to let the light in. I vacuumed the floor and kissed them goodbye everyday at the door. I hand picked the lights, rearranged the chairs and polished the banisters of the stairs. I watered the plants and gave a personal touch to the entire house with my own hands. 

There's a secret about these houses that no one tells you. When the person walking in forgets to leave their shoes at the door, the mud stains the carpet, and sometimes, it seeps in so much that you can't scrub it out. Sometimes when they don't close the doors behind them the doors rattle against the wall and the whole foundations of the house shake from the impact. Sometimes people with pretty smiles walk in with a taste for destruction and the worst kind of damage they can do is walk out without saying goodbye. 

One day the person you built the house for doesn't stop for a kiss goodbye. They walk in with vacant eyes and push the food around on their plate. They close the doors with a vengeance and start leaving the lights on when they walk out of a room. They forget to lock the front door and soon start forgetting to come back home. 

And now you’ll slowly start taking it back one by one. First the art in the hallway disappears. The one they admired for hours when it was first hung but now no one asks about its absence. Next, the fine china from the cabinet is nowhere to be seen and they chalk it up to misplacing it. Soon the carpets are blue instead of cream and the steps creak but not in the right places. The kitchen counter is cluttered, nothing like the order that existed before and the couch sits in the balcony soaking in the rain. The fire in the furnace died out two days ago and no one asks how the food still gets on the table. Sometimes the rainwater seeps in through the ceiling and makes the walls look like they're crying but they tell me that ghosts don't haunt things that are already dead. Poison ivy crawls over the outside walls, pricking anyone that tries to open the doors, the ashes from the hearth are scattered all over the floor. 

The house that once looked like someone put it together with love remains a testament of patched up dry wall and broken ceilings. The lights flicker and burn out, the water runs muddy and now they start to see the damage. They run their fingers across the overturned table and inspect the dust that coats the tip. They stand right in the heart of the house and tell you that they cannot live like this anymore. They’ll quietly roll out the bags they packed ages ago and talk to you about the wreck you’ve become. They’ll point out the broken windows and busted out lights and blame you for not taking care of yourself. 

But who is to tell them? Who is to tell them that once the people living in the house dont bother noticing it rust the house wrecks itself further. When no one bothers asking who broke  the windows or where the paintings went why would anyone search for answers?