I wake up in a room different than
my own, a place I once called home,
glow-in-the-dark stars and wooden
bookcases and endless possibility.
None of it looks familiar. There's no
space for a child anymore, perhaps
there never will be in my lifetime.
I know too much to be swept away
by innocence. I am a tired soul;
my body rejects movement, similar
to how you rejected a future for my
own good. Did you really believe
you wouldn't cause more harm?
My bed swallows me whole and
if I could hide away forever, I would.
My teeth are sore; I wonder if I spent
the night clenching them, tension from
questioning how much of you was true.
You wanted me to open up, and when
I did, it was too honest. I now live half-
confused. Do I guard all of me or only
certain pieces? Who will I become?
The memories won't leave. They repeat
the truth back to me when my eyes
have barely adjusted to light, catching
me off guard. I can no longer pretend
they don't belong. My name is a thread
you unraveled throughout, along with
my sanity, security, and salvation.
