I have a room.
There are no doors.
No cracks
nor crevices
through which mice
can visit me.
These walls
are blank
and clean.
I tried to plaster them
with posters
and pictures
and drawings.
But the rain came,
and they wasted all away.
And now I’m sitting here
alone
in this pasty,
muddled
puddle.
And I can’t look at the walls
because they are blank
and hideous
and clean.
I want to hide them away;
they are fragile
and vulnerable
and breakable
and I cannot let anyone
see through.
These walls are my privacy,
these posters my own thoughts.
So I take a pen,
a permanent pen
(or so I thought),
and drag it across the
smooth plaster.
Happy for now.
But the rain comes every morning
when I awake
to find my thoughts return
and I realize that this puddle
needs to go.
But right now
there is nowhere for me
to dump it.
So, soon,
I’ll have to break the wall.
But only a little bit.
And only for you.