My life is divided into different rooms as is my heart. For as long as I remember, from the time I used to care for decorations to the time I am too lazy to clean up. From the moments of sweet solitude by the window to the clinking glasses and winking eyes. The room belonged more to them than to me.
And I often found it unsettling, as if on a night when I would be hiding under covers not knowing what to fear, someone would knock at the door and with that knock, would come a pair of shoes and a set of clothes, holding a person whose face, motive or aim would soon be inconsequential.
And slowly she would drag me out of each room, snatching away each memory that she touched, knocking down my bookcases filled with my escape, tearing away the wallpapers behind which I hid my unvoiced cries. The doors would be shut on my face, leaving me out in a storm on a moonless night, leaving me alone to face all that I didn’t know of taking away all that I know.