the room

A baby pink shell of crusted texture

surrounds thick, bobbed hair and a lilac shirt.

Books shelved misunderstood

in a loving manner.

A rustic bed post decorated with sticker,

the smell gently sweet and mild

from an encyclopedia within starfish hands

curiosity unquenched.

Sand. Paint. Clay.

They watch her laugh,

she does well at school and she doesn’t notice.

Childish laughter. A nosebleed on the carpet.

Lost teeth and dinosaurs.

The three wooden doors that she confused together.


The books make her smile again

from when the ignorance of people ushers tears.

She is liked, joyful and tolerant

between the baby pink walls, curtains and sheet.

Her hair strings the uniform

amongst the smell of her school.

Mythology and Morpurgo spurs her soul,

they take her away.

She writes often, to herself, to others, to the world.

To anyone willing to listen,

her eyes water and her heart pulls

when her brain works faster than her small hand.

The pencil rubs her pink fingers,

back turned to three tall doors.


The four walls are sexually pink,

offering black daisies

and a cold grandmother’s bed.

Lines of graves reside in the wind,

her mind watches them from the warmth

as her cries become scarce.

Her novels are desperate, sparser

she glimpses the mirror

and she reads faster.

Frustrated violin calls and numb fingertips.

Cheap perfumes linger,

sickly and discomforting

in a darkening air as her eyes redden.

Gods and Goddesses spit sparks,

she is unsure of her friends.

She curls up, alone,

inside the third wooden door.


Strands of hair soften her underfoot and clothing,

her skin is textured and raw.

She cannot look at herself,

she is scared of friends and does not read.

The system distracts her failing mind

and she cries,

the noise and blood falling from metallic lips.

A sickening confusion mists her every action.

The walls are white and suffocating

in a room she does not leave.

A tapestry hangs over envy,

she wants to write but chokes.

Dust over books,

smoke over mind.

Furniture is taller,

the people around her fall to pieces.

There is power in being alone

yet her tangled limbs are weak

and her thoughts are dead.

She is ignorant of her strength

and spits her feelings into two of the wooden doors.


Thin hair is pulled loosely to her head,

she hasn’t cried for a long time.

Art is stuck on every wall

and the shelves are stacked with books.

She writes words upon words,



A woven rug constellated with

red and freckles

rainbows and flecks.

Teeth of metal,

mind of steel.

She is wanted, she is invited

to places where people want her to be.

Doubt still remains

as a feeling not a control.

Lights adorn every surface,

the room glows and the air is warm.

A heavy, colourful duvet.

A cork board of memories to her right.

A trio of doors to her left.

7 thoughts on “the room

      1. Aww, you’ll love the blogging community! My number one tip would be to interact! Post comments on others blogs, follow others, just get out there and enjoy it! I’ve been blogging for just over 7 months (wow that’s gone fast) and I have a new favourite hobby! The people you meet are so supportive. xx

        Liked by 1 person

      2. Thank you so much for the advice, I will try it out! Everyone so far has been extremely kind so I’m looking forward to getting into the community more, especially since I absolutely love writing. Thank you for being so nice xx


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