Spilled Ink, Vol. 32 – In a room

Dirty glasses lay on a grey hat, dark and large to frame. Past a sliding glass door, trees and pillars are blurry and bright.

| Insane |

Would you call me insane
If I mumbled to myself
“It’s not real, and you know it’s not real”
over and over again?

“It’s not real, and you know it’s not real.”
“It’s not real, and you know it’s not real.”
“It’s not real, and you know it’s not real.”
“But what if it is real?”

| Boxes |

Everything packed for moving
but I’m laying here, still
I’ve heard people say it’s hard
to fit your whole life into boxes
but right now I’m just laying here, still
unsure if I even have one

| I’m bad at measuring |

There’s more room in this room than I thought there would be
There’s more space in this space than I thought there would be
I’ve always been bad at intuiting measurements
My optometrist said I’m nearsighted and gave me glasses
Now I can read my laptop screen across my bed
and make out the leaves outside my window
But I’ll look into my soul and see nothing left to give
then five minutes later you’ll find me shaking on the floor
punching myself in the ribs

| Alone |

Trying for the day
When at last I can enjoy
My own company

| In a room |

In a room
Three beds, three desks
A place of rest, yet
Brimming with edges
It’s a home that isn’t home yet

In a room
Several chairs, one desk
Air humming raw
With vibrations that will only ever exist
Here, with the dam tears

In a room
Where four years of dust fills the corners
Two cameras fix on the walls
Trying for that . . . photographic memory
Someone should fix that computer, though

In a room
Bloody tissues swim in bacteria soup
Who used that razor for hair and flesh?
Maybe it’s the shell
Hyperventilating on the porcelain throne

In a room
Glasses on a hat that shouldn’t fit
Sunlight glare through windows into dark
Parallel to the ground
It’s a home that doesn’t feel like home

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