My Room

I hear a screaming baby and

I loathe my grown-up body because

That baby represents my soul.

Sometimes it’s too loud for me to hear anything else.

My broken body is beyond repair.

My mind is drowning, constantly entertaining suicidal fantasies which, in all honesty, haven’t all been fantasies lately.

My arms

Might as well be broken

Because I can’t look at them anymore without being in greater inner pain than I would physically feel with broken arms

I sometimes get lost

In my own bedroom.

In an instant, everything around me vanishes and all I can feel is fear

I can see the ceiling with its little bumps

I can hear a voice, coated in honey

I can smell sweat, perfume, and smoke

I can feel hands all over my young body, hands on my mind, freezing my thoughts

I can taste blood from my lips, or tongue, or whatever part of my mouth that I’m torturing to escape the torture going on in the rest of my body

And I am still.

I breathe heavily.

I feel like I’m going to die, but I’m not.

I’d rather take my life than let it be taken

And it’s being taken, bit by bit

Every time I remember

A part of me is killed.

What do I do when there’s nothing left?

I open my eyes, and look around.

I am back in my room.

I wish the evil thoughts away

But they haunt me.

They’re gone, but not for long.

There’s always this place in my mind that steals me away when I’m unguarded

Its ceiling is bumpy, and it smells like sweat, perfume and smoke.

It’s when I’m in this place that I feel like I need to die

Before I get killed.

So you see, it wasn’t me

That made the ugly scars all over my body

That stuffed pills down my throat, and pointed guns at my head

It wasn’t me

It was that room in my mind,

Along with the one who welcomed me into it.