(The word was “Room”) My room is my home, it’s a part of my home but it’s where I feel most at home.

I’ve spent most of my life in the this room, most of my minutes. I’ve trusted this room to encase me safely wile I am unconscious. This hollowed out piece of cement has managed to stay the same while watching me grow, cry, scream, break down, sing, and be alive.

I’ve clothed it in different things throughout my phases, stickers, posters with different bands or uplifting messages, mirrors getting higher up as I grow.

In my youth it was my Territory, my house, my safe space. Leaving it is like leaving a part of of me behind. We share memories that nobody else has seen, it was me in my room nobody else. Now I leave my youth behind in this square, and move on. Seeing my new room feels like an arranged marriage, getting thrown into something I don’t know expecting to make memories, and joy. Simply forgetting what memories could have been formed. I put up the same posters, and mirror like putting someone’s ashes on your shelf. I wake up for months not knowing where I am, my arm hits the wall and I don’t recognize the textures, my room has ridged stripes and smooth bumps, this wall has a matte straight feel. This is not my room, but it is, I live here. No a room is not an inhabitant, a room must be earned with memories good and bad, crying while hitting your hand on the wall, sliding of the wall on to the floor, stained carpets, cracked ceilings, sighing with relief at the sight of your room after a long day. This room has not earned its way into being mine, like marriage you have to know someone before you say with confidence and pride, “this one is mine” because though this room may keep me safe now, and see me as I am. It does not know me, and it will never know who I was.