Haven

In this room, you'll find evidence of my existence. I've strewn it on the deliberate, messy-painted and mismatched walls. I've left pieces between the bundles of papers that occupy the top of the mahogany drawer. 

On the leather chair, you'll find the fresh imprints of my bottom, the scent of my skin and the sweat that lingers in the black stitching. Behind the chair, there's a bookshelf. It's stuffed with my childhood. There are books I've read and re-read until their meanings and purpose were lost to me. Those were the paperbacks of my adolescence. 

Over in the corner, there sits a dusty keyboard. It's unplugged and abandoned, a visual representation of all the activities I've forsaken.

If you examined my dirty beige carpets, perhaps you'd see the blemishes of my DNA on them. Or maybe, if you unraveled them, maybe you'd find the memories I'd forgotten. Memories of me, crying away my sorrow on the floor or of me, mindlessly staring into the eyes of nothing at all.