That room.
Your room.
I’ve rested my body in every square foot.
Every inch.
Stepped foot onto every creaky floorboard in that old room of yours.
Cried in every vacant corner, the walls whispering to me.
Comforting me.
The walls became my friends, seeing every vulnerable scene.
All the times you yelled, shredding your vocal cords, till they
couldn’t stand the tension you built between them.
Huddled in the corners of your room, where the empathetic walls met, frightened.
The walls were there to comfort me.
Every touch you laid on my body, left an untraceable wound.
When you screamed at me, till your body ran out of air.
I was there to take the blows, your harmful words shot at me.
I feared you.
I feared your touch, your words.
I found comfort in the walls of your room.
I ran to them when your anger charged at me.
In the corners of your room, fearing you.
The walls whispered to me though, giving me more assurance than you
were ever capable of.
That room.
Your room.
I wish to never let my body lay in those corners again.
I hope the walls can breathe without the chronic pressure of my frail, frightened body.
The corners can stay vacant, I will no longer let myself occupy your room.
I will no longer talk to the walls.
They will no longer utter a word to me.
