my room

sitting in a room

with clothes on the floor

a baked potato half-eaten on

the nightstand

three half-empty glasses of water

two half-full


a lamp without a lightbulb

four curtains, one ripped

so many pictures on the wall

of people who I’ve loved

now I wonder if they feel

the same way


a string of lights that only half-work

some mascara stains on a white dress, hanging

waiting to be saved

a borrowed book mixed in with all the rest

too many blankets and pillows

for just one bed


a thousand and one thoughts

to fill a cluttered room

each one floating around each object

and I don’t understand.


are these objects what make this room


or is it the me that inhabits it?

is it money or paperwork

or the amount of time

I am here?


I’ve come to believe that the things

that I’ve strewn


the person I want to be and

the person I am

both who try to inhabit this room

and often bump into to one another

they create quite a mess

but we’ll co-habitat

until the old makes room

for the new