This room
As black as cheap coffee,
Its bitter darkness.
I bought candles
Hoping they would melt
Light back into my life
But, candles are a fire hazard.
They are not permitted to burn here.
Dad suggests I open a window,
But, the sky offers as much light
As the end of dying cigarette.
Besides, I only have one window
With blinds like horizontal prison bars,
Trapping me in a room of anxiety.
At night the moon
Slips through the blinds,
Paints imperfect stripes
On my pale skin.
It's the one time
I have enough light to write.
But, my poems only pretend to be poems,
For I am as much a poet
As the mute is an opera singer.
Dad asks if I've made any friends.
I know my neighbors are friends.
I always hear their terrible laughs
And often smell the smoke
Floating off their shared joints.
But, I have only succeeded
In becoming acquainted
With their shadows,
Which stumble drunkenly
Past the crack of my door
At two in the morning.
Yet, I'll lie and mention
Sarah from down the hall,
"Yes, Dad, we are great friends."
I only know her name
From the sticker on her door.
In the corner of this black room,
My mattress rests with its right corner exposed.
The sheet slipping off
Like a silk dress
From a woman's marble shoulder.
Proof that not even in my sleep,
Do I know peace.
Dad says he's proud of me.
His kind words feel like
Guilty chains on my tongue.
Every now and then,
The RA will intrude
On my solitude.
She'll make sure
My candles remain dead
And force me to participate in
Rehearsed conversation.
Eventually she'll leave,
Satisfied with my regular responses.
And I'll return to this black room,
Where I live
But, refuse to call home.
This black room I despise
But, am too broken to leave.
Dad asks if I like college,
"Yes, Dad, I feel right at home."