I cannot see the carpet,

All I see is the ceiling,

Do I even recall,

This room is like teething.

Uncomfortable and cramped,

Growing pains in their hinges,

Doors do creak softly,

Foot sticky, face cringes.

Eyes wince at big lights,

Musty, dusty and dark,

A reflection of my mind,

If I can’t cry, I’ll laugh.

Food packets are crumpled,

The bin overflowing,

Cups of coffee be stale,

So fatal they’re glowing.

Posters half hanging,

Walls that don’t fit,

They ask, “how do I live?”,

In filth such as this.

“I don’t live” I say,

I simply do and survive,

I’m awake till the dawn,

In the chaos I thrive.

I slumber in it’s mess,

It’s all I’ve ever known,

Jump to reach the bed,

Where I nestle cold and alone.

No one is coming,

So what’s there to clean?

Dishes stacked on each surfaces,

Food exists in dreams.

The door does not open,

A fog settles over plaster,

Cigarette smoke drowns me,

This room is my master.

I am chained to this bed,

Unable to lift a finger,

Ribs poke through skin,

Like crumbs on bedsheets linger.

Sores on my body,

My back does ache,

I carry the shame of this room,

Each twilight that I wake.

Do not pity me please,

Do not offer to cleanse,

This room is my space,

My issue to mend.

And I say it’s just my space,

No reflection of my head,

So I will sit alone in this,

Alone in this room

this cave

My mess.