This is the happy home we never had
The love and joy that was not ours
This is the place where we are understood.
Some people have a real home
(Which has nothing to do at all with a house)
It is repose of the soul; it is acceptance.
Some of us strive our whole lives long
To be what we cannot, to fit a mythical construct
Fabricated for us on a whim, from caprice.
Starting soon, they say: ‘This child shall be this
That child shall be that’ and we are labelled, always wrong.
There is no pleasing some people.
And so we shrink ourselves
So small you cannot notice we are bad
Unloved, rejected, fitting in no place, nowhere.
Until we find a dolls’ house, here
We can be ourselves in any scale or time
And reconstruct the life that should have been.
Here we can have a hundred dolls who love us, or none
Here is the world perfected, made by us.
Here at last we can grow our souls.
JaneLaverick.com – waxing waxy