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Anonymous User Poem
The wind blows in my hair
Pushes it to my face
Can't think about that now
I have important things to do
Get inside
No
I have to sit outside
I have to think
Inside is choices
Inside is freedom lost
Out here I have to decide
What I want to do
I can't think with this wind
But going inside means choosing
They sent me out here to make a choice
Now I have to make it now.
Green walls, pink walls, what color the walls?
Here, there, where should all the furniture go?
I told them I wanted it like my old room
But they won't let me have that
So I have to make a choice
I "Can't keep anything the same"
My parents think they're helping me forget
Our small little home on Cherry St.
We can't afford that one anymore
We moved across town
To a house half the size
"Getting my own room is a miracle" they claim
I just want to go home
Not inside, home
Inside will never be my home
They just had to do all these renovations
On our Cherry St. house
'Til they couldn't even pay for it anymore.
They can't pay for anything.
I almost had to live with someone else.
I'm afraid if I go in I have to choose
It can't get any worse anyway
It's not my room no matter how it looks
I go in, say a few things, then run out
I want to see my real room
It's still there
Same pale pink walls
I was "living in an eraser"
Same white carpet
I was "standing on milk"
My parents like color
I like keeping color simple
I actually wouldn't care about the changes
If I hadn't wanted it to be the same
I go out.
It's still for sale.
My old room is for sale.
My memories are for sale.
Can't anyone see that?
It was all because of the stupid renovations
To make it look
like it could be
on
HGTV
(WHICH
THEY
DON'T
EVEN
WATCH
BECAUSE
THEY
PRIORITIZED
HARDWOOD
FLOORS
OVER
TELEVISION)
I'm so mad at them now
I want to move out
I'm 16 now, can I?
Should I?
Will I?
No.
They're my parents.
I can't leave them.
Yes I can.
No I can't.
Now I'm torn.
I could live in our old house!
I'm being ridiculous.
If two people with jobs can't afford it,
neither can one teenager without work
I go back to my prison
It will never be home to me
"I'm back" I say.
"I'm home" I don't.
"I'm home" I used to.
"I'm home" I thought long ago.
That was a month ago.
I can never go back home.
The thought lingers in my head
Forever
It echoes and haunts
and it repeats and taunts
Until I can't take it anymore
I wait until my parents leave
I go to the kitchen
I get a knife
Before I realized it,
the first cut was made.
I can never go back home.
No.
Copyright © Anonymous User | Year Posted 2015
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