Red couches hold me against my will 
The home I kept running from, just wanted to keep me still 
Don’t know if there will be food on the table tonight or how ill pay my bills 
But this is the house that birthed Rose Hills 

Comfort felt like chains in a sweet disguise,
Walls that held every version of my lies.
Plastic on lamps, lace on the side,
Wrapped up tight—nothing left to hide.

Mirrors that caught my tantrums and tears,
Watched me grow up on fear and cheers.
Mama’s voice in the kitchen, quiet but sharp,
Family full of jokes, always ready for the next remark. 

I prayed to ceilings, to saints in frames,
Asked God if I was more than my pain.
Some nights I was the storm, some nights the still—
I love the home that birthed Rose Hills.

They call me that like I chose the name,
But I crawled through roots just to earn my flame.
A flower with thorns, grown from spite,
Bloomed in a room that never saw light.

This room held more than tables and fights,
More than whispers, more than sleepless nights.
A patchwork couch, stitched tight with care,
By women who fought and always were there.

Framed memories watch, silent and wise,
Holding both laughter and loss in their eyes.
The table stood low, steady, and true—
Weathered the storms, held me and you.

Nothing here fragile—no crooked lamp,
No plastic that clings, no whispered chant.
Faith lingers still in every room,
The home that held me like my mothers womb.

This house was flawed, but never fell,
And neither did I, despite the hell.
Because home isn’t just where you sleep—
It’s the strength you learn, the pain you keep.

To hold. To carry. To stand through the now—
The Red couches hug me close somehow.

And here I stand, I hold this home—
No longer running and never alone.