We remind me, of my bedroom...

This is the tall tale of a typical teen.
This is the dirt, the grime, and the grit under your nails.
These are the words you have all been afraid to write-
the ones floating in the space between your thoughts.
These are the mental pictures painted with colorless hues.
These are the words that stain your smile with dusted enamel.
This is the truth, for once.

I used to believe I was different.
I used to believe that I was the only one with a brain like this:
teetering, tottering, ticking like a time bomb
temporarily disengaged by teen theories.

I am a draft dodger.
This war eventually attempts to enlist us all.
Do you have to fight harder to avoid it?
A mind like mine- a mind like any other
thinks all these things and more…either that or less.
Sometimes it’s hard to differentiate between when my mind is off
opposed to when it is on overdrive.

It’s hard to remember when I became like this.
I convince myself that there was a change-
that maybe I wasn’t always like this.
Then I try to remember when I started lying to myself.
Maybe I’ve always done that too.

Have you ever sat in the corners of your room
counting the ceiling tiles?
Have you spotted stories stacked like laundry and rubble in every crevice?
Have you ever wondered how much one room could say about you?

My carpet is dirty and there are loose papers everywhere-
I’ve refused to erase a word in months.
I figure my inability to describe how I feel,
is an explanation in itself.
For some reason, everything here seems slanted and crooked.
Once in a blue sun I sprawl out on my bed
and let myself melt into the pillows until I am almost sure I am invisible.
Sometimes, I find that I belong there,
suspended in a dream world where time slows down, if even only for a moment

and it is there that I begin to wonder

Can a room get dirty if you’re never in it?



No…
but it can’t get clean either.