Wind

She holds storms within her. 

She is a house with windows and doors open, and
cracks between the floorboards.
She lets in the gusts like a gracious host
welcomes and embraces a guest.
The winds are the struggle, regret, the loss, and   
heartache of those she loves.
She lets it all in the moment she hears or senses it,
hoping to relieve them of their distress.

Hoping they will love and receive her in return.

The trapped winds build into a turbulence, searching for release.
But she keeps them, despite the dangers,
to whirl about inside as she carries them wherever she goes
awake, asleep, doing laundry, at the park, buying groceries, at meetings.
They’re always in her.

But these are not her winds to tame, to protect, to soothe, to carry.
Who told her they were hers?

You see, she was never taught how to protect her house,
to tend to her rooms.
To be her own relief. To soothe herself. 

She didn’t know she could shut the door.
She didn’t know the winds were not hers to let in or hold.
They never were.

She is a house, learning to patch its cracks, and
close her doors to the winds she mistakenly thought were love and devotion.