the flimsy white of the walls are only
so broken
up by an old
faux wood
bookshelf and a desk.

the closet's a happy blue
challenging anyone to notice it
hidden in the corner.

it's here
where I'm planted under my bed
where I've retreated under heavy fire
where I'm unwashed and indifferent
where hunger is confusion

that I spend so much time
thinking of other _s
as if it's only
a matter of time before
I conjure other __s
into being
through sheer force of
desperation.