Come In!

(can we stop with the disclaimers?)

She’s on her way!

Panic!
Manic
cleaning!

S T O P!

Serve the toilet an extra strong drink of electric blue bleach
and let the rest be.

I know.
I know.
You have unfinished projects.
There are dust balls peeking out from underneath the couch.

Let.

It.

Be.

Open the front door
to your half (or, barely)-cleaned home.
Let her in, unashamedly
without warnings or disclaimers.

Offer your truest self
(and maybe some tea?)
Psst! Hint!
That’s who she’s come to see!

Not sparkling tile floors.
Who even knows
what those look like
anymore?

You are not
your piles of papers
or toothpaste smudged sink
or your cluttered kitchen

She knows the truth
(do you?!)

You are a work of art
in progress
stretching and growing
not dust-less baseboards

She sees your soul.
She embodies the same hopes.
She has to lay down the same haunting fears.

We might as well
do it together
in our untidy homes
with our untidy hearts

Let’s power-wash expectations
of ourselves, and
fling our front doors
w i d e o p e n

She’s not ringing the bell
in hopes of noticing greatness.
She’s come to see
what’s inside

your heart.

(And I’m pretty sure perfectly placed house plants have nothing to do with it.)