​The heart is a house where the tenants don’t match, Where anger sits guarding the lock and the latch; It’s a hot, sudden fever, a fist in the chest, The fire that burns when we’re put to the test. And right in the hallway, the sadness settles deep, A slow-moving river that never quite sleeps, The salt on the cheek and the weight in the bone, The quietest echo of feeling alone. ​Then hate builds a fortress of jagged-edged stone, A wall made of "us" and a wall made of "them" alone; It feeds on the friction, it thrives in the dark, Waiting for someone to strike at the spark. But love is the floorboard, the beam, and the roof, The only thing constant, the only real proof That even in wreckage, we reach for a hand, To build something better on shifting, gray sand. ​I wish for the day when the shouting would cease, And the friction of living would settle into peace— Not just a silence where the hurting stays hid, But a grace that forgives all the things that we did. A world where the anger is used for the right, Where the sadness is held 'til it turns into light, Where we trade in the hate for a seat at the table, And love is the bridge that keeps us all stable.