My Brain is the Only Place That is My Own

In the Right Upper Room, tinted cyan and splattered lavender and bittersweet,

Lives a long man named Meraki.

Growing wild white hair and shedding roses from his glassy eyes,

He writes poetry about daisies too heavy for their stems

And being loved by people he cannot love back.

He writes ballads of fear, not wanting to end with all his green hopes locked inside his mind

And wishing to escape the thin cage of his transparent skin that imprisons his organs of abstraction.

He writes stories of monsters that dwell in his small friends

And battling them from behind a wooden wall.

In the Right Upper Room, colored periwinkle with splashes of forest and silver,

Rests a fiery woman named Eunoia.

Wearing water around her ring finger and yelling with her mouth shut,

She paints the canvas with charcoal presently burning

And tries not to singe the cloth.

She paints the walls with narratives of neighbors that speak in Morse Code

And attempts to understand their words.

She paints the floors with ginger root and rue

And craves to be as natural as the ground.

In this fleshy Room, full of empty space and saturated air,

The two waltz in an atmosphere of tingling electricity.

They press their temples together,

They can do nothing except be.

They see the concrete beauty of home, the genius struggle of high school, the poignant intelligence of sadness,

Without each other they are nothing,

And without them

I am the same

Stuck in a blank, barren Right Upper Room.