The light in this room
Is bright
I furnish the room
With best intentions
A menagerie of dreams
Of aspirations
Memories framed and hung
From times almost forgotten
Or wished forgotten
But prayers persist
Scratched into flesh
Meant to fend off sins
But simply remind me
Of what I’ve done
Of what’s been done to me
I’d be more proud of track marks
Than these self inflicted wounds
At least busted veins
Would mean I loved something
Outside this godforsaken room
Even a real prison
Of concrete and metal
Would mean I had felt passionate
Enough to have crossed lines
Internal monologues so memorized
I mouth them soundlessly
Subconsciously
Unknown to me
I’m only reminded of their existence
By the indentation they leave
In the couch only I ever sit in
Behind the couch are curtains
I keep closed
The world is dark
My room is bright
So when I do peek
I’m always disappointed at my reflection
And immediately embarrassed
That someone might see inside
So only ever just a peek
Then back to the photos
The menagerie
Tracing the indents in the couch
With calloused fingers
And like a tic
I tug at sleeves too short
To cover these scrimshaw invocations
I can’t drive this reoccurring thought
Out of my mind
That this brightly lit room
Is nothing more
Than the bioluminescent underbelly
Of a firefly
That if I peek through the curtains
At just the right frequency
At the right time
I’ll see a semaphore
Flashing back
And the indents in their sofa
Will be near enough to mine
I’ll know I’m not entirely alone
erichmichaels 