When I was younger,

I didn’t care who crossed my doorstep.

Right or wrong, kind or cruel—

People came and went.

I left the door wide open

Hoping they’d return,

Believing I needed them to.

But enough consensual break-ins came.

My furniture was destroyed.

My souvenirs stolen.

My walls painted red

until my home was no longer mine—

just hallways of rewritten history and dissolution.

So I moved out

With only my suitcase,

And locked a new door behind me.

For years, I had to figure some things out.

What music did I want to fill my rooms?

What art should decorate my halls?

What didn’t I want there?

I learned to cook

To fill the smell of home

With memories and fulfillment.

For a while,

This peace gave me a sanctuary.

But outside my window,

people came with welcome gifts.

I told them to leave the food at the door.

They lingered,

Chatting at the threshold,

Peeking in from the porch,

Complimenting what they saw.

And one day,

I realized how quiet it had become.

So I uprooted everything

And moved again.

This time, I installed a doorbell.

And I promised myself

I would answer it.

And offer a glass of water

And an hour of my time.

This stretched into a few hours

Sometimes coupled

with wine and food.

Sometimes combined

With a slow growth of friends

Who would always come back.

They didn’t touch my belongings.

They didn’t paint my walls.

Instead, they thanked me

for the food,

the safe space,

the beauty inside my home,

and the chance to return.

And as it turns out,

my home was always a good place to be.

Nothing was ever wrong with it.

Only with what I allowed through the door.

And what I forgot I was allowed to keep.