I Make a Home Out of Memories

 I don’t build with bricks.

I build with moments.
With photo frames that are a little bent,
and colours that don’t match, but feel like me.

From every place I go, I bring back a piece—
a chipped mug, a scarf with stories,
a shell that reminds me I once stood by the sea.
These things are more than decoration—
they're memory stitched into matter.

My house is my diary.
My room, a secret poem.
It’s not perfect. It’s not tidy.
But it’s mine.
It holds me when the world doesn’t.