“I mean it’s all a little strange.
You sit in the same room
you’ve been sitting in for 15 years,
the same room you’ve cried in
over stupid boys and stupid girls,
the same room you laughed in,
screamed in, sang in, danced in,
vomited in, raged in, cried in,
loved in, loved in.
The room you locked yourself inside,
the door and window you slammed
over and over, hoping to bruise walls
or break bones of glass.
The room that’s held you like a loose embrace
on all the nights you shook yourself to sleep.
This room saw you writhe and sputter
your way through your teenage years
saw your chest bloom
and saw blood stain your sheets
saw tears lick themselves
in salty trails down your cheeks,
saw you naked in disgust,
saw you in the moments
you didn’t want to see yourself.
And it’s weird,
because you sit here now and run
your fingers down its walls,
like walking through battlefields
after a war. You find the bullets,
the damage, the echoes of combat.
You knock your knuckles against
the surface and hear the hurt, hear
the rustle of weeds and vines that
grew as you grew.
And at the center of it all is your heart
beating inside these walls, this room,
ringing out like a peace call. This is how
it ends, and this is how it all begins.”
— Kelsey Danielle, This is The Room I Built | pigmenting