The Room.

I haven't written in long. And Poetry is not whispering in my ear, rather I feel vacant and don't know what to write about. I can write about what I am reading and how it is piercing through me, or maybe I can talk about I am unable to identify myself with the nymphomaniac who never felt complete without other body. I read my own words and understand nothing, I can feel what I once wrote but I don't believe the woman whose mind gave birth to them. I am living in a void, it is not unhappy, very strangely so.




It was bed with six legs, a rather big one. The bed sheet wasn't tightly held together by the heavy mattress, rather it fell loosely on the edges and felt like it was slept on. It had not been lonely. With wrinkles and waves of cloth covering its space, and the white beauty of it, which was well seen and well moved on. It wasn't a bed that seemed unfamiliar, but it was huge. It was broad and long, and the heavy fluffy mattress looked comforting on it.
I sat on an edge of that big bed. Switched on the television, channel after channel I kept falling deeper into the void and got lost in the static that held all these colors together. So I keep the remote down and play the tune of what I once wrote on my phone. My legs felt dead, not mourning their stillness, rather appreciating their laziness. The man I had been waiting for walks in, we make love, he smokes and leaves.
Its interesting how zippers are not as comfortable as they are were advertised to be. I don't like zippers, so I don't wear clothes with them. Days have been passing rather slowly and despite how pathetic this room makes me feel, i cling on to its safety. Stepping outside, where everything is cracking-up is hurtful. I came across this new street, it was dark and very badly broken. The man I met there walks in, we make love, he leaves and kisses goodbye.
The windows of this small room are my height, and I am not very tall, but these glasses make me feel so. I try and look out, the terrible fear of heights had kept me from enjoying so many things. Things are always beautiful when looked at from far above. They are organized and well structured. I can trace the place I call home, and look back the clock on the wall. One more night here and I will go home. The man who said will take me comes on time, we make love, he promises seeing me tomorrow, leaves.
Smoke fills empty places, but temporarily. And I recall who all I promised for one meeting. I will wash my hair, gather my clothes, wash myself, put on a pretty smile and walk right out of here. Everything that needs to be done will happen only once I walk out of here. But would you have left an abode so quiet and controlled. The man who cleans the bed, comes on time, we make love, he leaves.
Last night was terrifying and the horrid dreams of unending labyrinths and caves, took me step by step into nothingness. I kept anticipating the destination, but. So when I woke up, I looked at myself in the mirror and fell into a terrifying coma. I tried moving, like my legs, my entire body was so comfortably lifeless. Like they had declared a submission. Lying right there, on the ground, blood slowly covering the floor. Dragging myself I reach the door. I can go out.
But I cling on to the room and its familiarity. Unlike my home, it does not expects me to dress and sleep a certain way. The bed is huge and is made for company, which I love. All this flashes by my eyes while I kneel in front of the door. I lift myself up. And lock it. I am safe now, within these walls and a window my length.