The Room That Remembers Me
This room knows my footsteps
better than my family does.
The floorboards exhale my weight
like a tired secret,
like they’re sick of holding me up
but too loyal to let me fall.
The wallpaper peels
in the exact shape of my hands,
fingers curled,
like it caught me trying to escape
and decided to keep the print.
The closet door opens
half an inch every night,
just enough to listen,
just enough to breathe along with me.
Some nights,
the light switch flips itself off
mid-thought
and I hear the walls whisper,
you’ve said that before,
like they’re correcting my story.
I think I live here alone,
but in the corner of the ceiling
a crack is forming
the outline of my face.
The room is practicing
how to be me
for when I finally leave
and don’t come back.
