The Woman Who Held the Walls Up

"The Woman Who Held the Walls Up"

I built this house with tired hands,
with quiet strength nobody understands.
I scrubbed the floors till they shined like new,
held every corner together with glue.
I picked up socks, cups, trash, and pain,
reset the mess again and again.

I made this place a home to live,
poured in love I didn’t have to give.
I cleaned the chaos he left behind,
trying to keep some peace in mind.
But now he stands there, cold and loud,
acting like I don’t belong somehow.

How do you love me yesterday,
then tell me to leave today?
How do you watch me break my back,
then treat me like I’m dead weight, slack?
How do you use the home I made,
then threaten me with being replaced?

My son just came, three weeks inside,
sleeping on the couch where he tries to hide.
And suddenly the rules all change,
suddenly I’m the one to blame.
But when his friends come through the door,
he sits right there on the same damn floor.

It’s not the couch, it’s not the space—
it’s the way he looks at my child’s face.
It’s the shift from warm to cold,
the story changing when it’s told.
It’s the way he makes me feel so small,
after I’ve held up these walls for us all.

I’m crying through a day that won’t end,
trying to breathe, trying to pretend
that I’m not breaking from the inside out,
that I’m not drowning in fear and doubt.
I gave this house my heart, my soul—
now I’m the one he wants to control.

But I know this truth beneath the ache:
I’m worth more than what he can take.
I’m not the mess he wants me to be,
I’m the woman who kept this place standing free.
And even if he can’t see my worth,
I’ve been the backbone of this earth.

I built this home with love and care—
and I deserve to feel safe in there.
I deserve respect, not fear, not shame.
I deserve a place that speaks my name.
And if he can’t love the whole of me,
then maybe leaving sets me free.