Tonight is the last night

in this room.

If you looked

through the open window

and saw twenty-two years of living

in its paint,

Simply White, Tutu Pink, Seafoam Green, Venetian Yellow,

you could peel back

the pain I rolled into these walls


find the secrets I etched

in the underside of the bookshelf.

There are pinholes in the plaster

where I hung pages of words,

and Christmas lights in December,

and the closet shelves have housed

dolls, fairies,

desk lamps and my favorite books.

When I stand in this empty room

I can hear the walls


holding my heartbeat

like an electrical current


my own skeletal frame

is failing

to do its job.

Tonight is not the first night

I dreamed of the places

I will end up


it is the last night

I will dream of those places


I go find them,

spreading out across the world

like paint on these four walls,

like pain prompting a runaway,

like the slow burning

of a cigarette to its end

can still start

a wildfire.


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