Johneta Ohler Poet Spoken Word

Bare Walls

They ask why my walls are empty, 
why echoes still outnumber frames, 
why every nail waits untouched 
as if it's afraid to remember.
They think it's neglect. 
They think I forgot how to make a house feel like home.
But they never saw how every choice
became a battlefield.
A color was too loud.
A picture was too much. 
A dream took up too much space.
So I learned that silence matched every room, 
and bare walls were easier to defend.
Somewhere along the way, 
I stopped asking, 
"What do I love?"
Instead, I asked, 
"What won't start a fight?"
Now the house is mine. 
The quiet is mine. 
The freedom is…
mine.
Yet I still stand holding a picture frame
like it weighs a hundred pounds,
waiting for a voice
that no longer lives here 
to tell me I'm wrong.
Healing isn't always loud.
Sometimes, 
it's standing in an empty room
and realizing the walls were never waiting for permission.
I was.
One day, I'll hang the picture.
Then another.
I'll choose colors without apology,
fill shelves with pieces of myself, 
and learn that home isn't built by perfect taste
it's built by trusting the heart that was once taught not to choose.
And when these walls are finally covered,
it won't just be decoration.
It will be proof that I came back to myself.

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