Mostly empty space.
Open floor.
A tall, sleek fluorescent floor lamp casting a bluish glow over everything.
CDs stacked evenly.
Alphabetized by artist, then by album.
Black stains on the grayish carpet, like skid marks.
My things couldn’t get out of here quickly enough.
The carpet fibers are grating against my knees
as I kneel on the floor
trying to drag something out
from under the dresser.
I bruise too easily,
and the spot already feels a little swollen.
An angry red circle.
My room is fighting back.
Punk music screams through tiny speakers.
A cheap, battery-operated stereo.
A horrible, scratchy voice and predictable chord progression
but anger that breaks through
that makes the speakers buzz.
The balance is off, all off!
The bass is too loud and the drums are too harsh.
But I feel it.
Dry air on my tongue.
Exhaustion.
Exultation.
Victory.
But I haven’t eaten in a while,
my throat feels scratchy
and I wonder how long this will last.
The dust is settling as I inhale.
Did you know that dust is mostly dead human skin?
My hands are dry and the insides of my nostrils ache,
like my room already knows
that you can never
come home again.