in the room of my life

Here,
In the room of my life
Lay weathered books,
Snake-grasped phone cords,
And photos  that stand next to their
Would-be frame if we ever actually finished 
Redecorating. 
The childish accessories tease me, 
here, 
in the room of my life
Where I became a child no longer.
The wilted beanbag, now covered in dog fur
That I threw against my blue comforter
when I found out he 
wasn’t 
going to 
make it. 
dead. like the velvet lavender 
that peeks out of an old root beer bottle,
watching me as I drift in iridescent sleep. 
watching the 
Ivory keys wincing from 
Overstepping boundaries,
The woven rug from Ikea, 
Quite literally overstepped.
The windows, projected
as the elevated train roars past. 
I imagine the seats as I feel them every morning,
blue, with the same starving disgust
That the grease-lined formica countertops 
At the road stop diner make 
me feel.
i feel the dent where i rest my head each night
my mascara in the pillow.
The drugstore makeup collection resting
Politely on my sister's desk. 
The rain water exhaust dripping 
Inside my walls.
And the old curtains,
Suspended away from the huffing radiator
because they too,
are afraid of being burned. 

In the style of Anne Sexton