He that lives in a glass house must not throw stones.

I had a house.
And in that house there were things.
Things with memories encrypted onto them.
There were chairs we sat and laughed in.
Photographs, I adored you.
Books we never read.
Walls with words unsaid.
The front door always remained locked,
I never wanted to leave.
The shelves held all the lies you spilled
Around our wooden floors that always
Creaked when you came around
Sound proofed our bedroom so you did not hear
Me scream when I found her scent underneath
Your pillow.
The hearts on the window from the fogged mornings.
Mornings I could not sleep from the nights you
Pretended to love me.
Stained red lipstick smeared across buttoned shirts;
I always ignored.
Everytime you would return to me with a little less than you left with.
The warnings were deafening but I covered my ears
With your hands and begged you to make
The sirens stop, and you would kiss my cheek
And just as innocently I would sweep away
Her footprints in the doorway.
The wine bottles spilled everytime you left;
Drinking to the nights alone, in our bed.
This house became a knife and I always bled when you fled,
Cutting deeper, the nights longer, the mornings colder,
Wrapping myself in your bedsheets; wondering how it was you could hold her,
When you had me. Sadly, our happy home became a
Vacant hole and I walked the halls and of what was.
The chairs were broken, the pictures on the walls
Were crooked and the windows shattered.
This is what our love had become.
Broken.

I sold that house; to a woman who didn't mind the mess.
She said nothing could compare to the tangles in her chest.
When she stepped into the doorway, I could almost hear her sadness
Burst inside of her.
Her scent was familiar.
Her red lipstick blared.
She pushed my hand away when I went to give her the key.
Opened her purse and pulled out her own.
I smiled and left that house.

And I built myself a home.