Between Bruises & Blooms

The house is a fucking mess.

There.

I said it.

Laundry has migrated
from baskets
to hallways
to beds,

some of it clean,
some of it waiting,
all of it multiplying
when I turn my back.

There are toys in boxes,
toys beside boxes,
and toys that apparently believe
the floor is their ancestral homeland.

Clean dishes wait
patiently on the counter
because washing them
was yesterday’s victory,

and apparently
putting them away
is today’s problem.

There are garbage bags
by the door,

already tied,

like tiny black trophies
proving I actually
did accomplish something.

The mop is waiting.

The vacuum is waiting.

The bathroom counter
has become a small civilization
of bottles, brushes,
toothpaste
and things I swear
I just put away.

And somewhere
behind all of it,

there is a home.

My home.

A place where babies sleep
while I tiptoe past their door,

where children scatter pieces
of themselves
into every room,

where meals are made,
baths are taken,
clothes are worn,
washed,
folded,

and occasionally
even make it back
into the fucking drawers.

So maybe
this isn’t evidence
that I’ve failed
to keep a house.

Maybe it’s evidence
that I’ve been busy
keeping a life.

Still—

that floor
isn’t going to mop itself.

So I’ll start
with one garbage bag,

one basket,

one room,

until somewhere beneath
the laundry,
the crumbs,
the toys
and the beautiful fucking chaos,

I find my house again.