I am the architect of my own heart now,
laying every boundary like good stone.
The walls you tore, I'm building back with granite —
and this time I keep the key that locks my own.

You taught me open doors meant I was loving,
that fences were a colder word for fear.
But every house that stands has honest corners,
and every peace worth keeping draws a line right here.

So I mix the mortar slow and choose my windows,
decide which weather I will let inside.
A no is not a war, it's just a doorframe —
a quiet, load-bearing kind of pride.

Protecting your peace is not an act of war.
It's a blueprint.
It's choosing the door that opens outward —
and standing in it like it's yours. Because it is.

Brick by steady brick I am becoming
a home that finally answers to its builder.

I am the architect of my own heart now,
every boundary set in patient stone.
The walls I raise, I raise with better reasons —
and the key stays warm inside my hand alone.