MY CHILDHOOD ROOM
FEELS LIKE A MUSEUM
no matter how many times
I dust the shelves.
The trophies look more plastic than ever
and the cat collection is a little out of hand.
The books are still my pride and joy
but their covers haven’t been caressed in
years?

Has it really been
years?

I light a candle and cradle my thoughts in my cranium
tapping my toes in tandem with
THE TERRIBLE SQUEAK in my ceiling fan
I asked my mom to get that fixed
does she forget everything when I’m not home
do the doors go unlocked when I’m not home
do the cats go unfed
does the truth go unsaid
WHY DO I NO LONGER FIT MY CHILDHOOD BED.

In the silence I can hear her.
I hear the little girl with the long braided hair
ask her mom for a book
For Christmas.
I envy her.

This Christmas  my list consisted of things
I know my mom can’t buy.
This year I asked for peace, for a stable career after college,
for a meaningful relationship that doesn’t
breed in the dark cracks of insecurity and small talk.
I asked for love, I asked for bathroom mirrors to stop insulting me,
and for people at grocery stores to smile more.
I asked for patience, I asked for the sun to show her face a little longer
so  I could finish everything I promised I would do.
I asked for joy, I asked for rainfall I could dance in, for a snowstorm where I can make snow angels and not care about the ice
that slides down my sleeve
I asked for knowledge, I asked for the stories of the unheard to be shouted from the skyscrapers
and for politicians TO STOP SCREAMING.
I asked for trust, I asked for lying to be illegal
and for people to feel safe when they hold out their hearts
in front of them.

I asked for someone to listen.
Because I know I can’t do this by myself.
It’s okay that we don’t fit out childhood beds
and growing up means growing out
of our once-favorite things.

We can stop asking
for books for Christmas–
as long as we write a new one
together.