My childhood bedroom was my womb
An artist's mind trapped within the warm blue paint
That encased me.
A twin bed of wrought iron
I drew names on in sharpie,
Lines of fragmented musings
Littering the space between breath and being.
I gestated myself there,
Beyond the touch of others
I was everything and nothing
A ball of hope and pain
A rudimentary cross-stitch of dreams dying early
Stuffed animal nostalgia
And my first trips into womanhood.
My carpet a sea of tears,
Broken discs and sighs that never even reached
The windowpane.
In the youth of my room,
I waded through my own fantasies
Thick enough for rain boots.
I intricately spun webs of delusion,
Of love.
I conjured up my own demons
In the absence of fear--
In the safety of my enshroudment.
It became a lesser known evil
Staying within the basement of my body,
That still floods me
With fantastical depression.
I left it when I was seventeen
Young enough to still feel the overwhelming weight
Of life,
And never walked back through the door frame
That held so much
For so long.
Eventually,
Posters were ripped down
Drawings painted over,
The last scraps of who I was
Given to charity.
I'd like to think that room remains somewhere
Composed and preserved
The day it was left,
The day my innocence was
Abandoned.