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The Empty Room
an empty room
and I stare at the ceiling
blank eyes and a blanker slate,
my poker face
arms spread over my head
all I can see are
whirring blades blurring into
creamy paint and
the small cracks in between
the shadows in my chest,
mahogany
branching out their needles,
ebony
one pricks my eye
red ink taints crisp alabaster
damps it slow, slow, slow
I exhale shaky, shaky, shaky
heavy lids droop to a close
and no one sees
no one can.
Copyright ©
Hiba Junaid
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