The blueprint of me

They sit in the parlor with photos and tea, Discussing the "perfect" arrangement for me. "He has a good job," and "You’re twenty years old," They weigh out my future in silver and gold. They talk about venues, the guests, and the rings, But my mind is drifting to structural things. They see a housewife, a mother, a bride, I see the spaces that function inside. While they plan a wedding to fill up a hall, I’m mentally moving the load-bearing wall. They want me to settle, to fit in a frame, To live in a house that carries his name. But I want to build. I dream in sketches, in texture, in light, Of how a room breathes in the middle of night. I want to know fabrics, the grain of the wood, To understand why a perspective is good. I want to study how colors align, To master the language of Interior Design. Don't tell me that marriage is my only room, That my dreams are just dust to be swept with a broom. I am not a fixture, a sofa, a chair, To be placed in a corner and left sitting there. I have plans for a degree, for a life of my own, Before I set down a single cornerstone. Please put down the teacups. Please look at my face. I need to find my own flow and my space. Before I can live in the home you decree, I need