the door creaks as I shuffle off to bed
when my room looking bleak as the day
one year ago when I was hot to start living
in it starts to speak to me: why did you leave
so many things unfinished just look at me
and I would say I am sorry but for what
nothing lives in here there is no buried speech
vibrating off the walls no one wants to listen
and I am not ashamed to sleep in the same dirty
sheets and smell the way I sweated with guilt
after I had pushed away what crowded me close
too close I was to figuring it all out
what it meant when I opened the door to my room
and saw the discarded laundry in so many piles
and not one but two desks my back hurts to sit at
and the gloom that sticks to my feet
laying in bed weighing each day of the past year
in the sighing scale of my sharpshooting brain
the crosshairs rest on each moment that changed me
but knowing that despite the labyrinth I labor over
I will wake in the same straightjacket of circumstance
wishing a successful death over another year of half-failures
but I know that the room is dark and daring me to do
what I have always known how to do
it is no longer a matter of getting better or being the best
it is about carving a space that echoes love for my name
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