Self Portrait as A Room

At some point within the past 3 years

I became an empty room

Well-decorated with photographs and expressionist prints, framed original doodles,

Books everywhere, floor to ceiling-

stories about lovers and chosen ones,

bound social theories that venture to explain the darkest parts of the human mind,

poetry- bought and gifted,

an altar strewn with wax puddles, cedar needles and an old siddur

I am the neglected yoga mat in the corner,

the solitary earrings I’ve lost,

the idle RPGs on my hard drive

At some point I became empty

and failed to notice the lingering silence

in my self directed dialogue

and the locked door,

the key - buried somewhere in my limitless junk drawer

hibernating among the faulty chargers and dead batteries

I forgot there was a door -

enamored with being a space, not a station,

dreading the odd soul who’d wander in for just a short while

for tea or a kiss, so

I locked the door

and imagined there, a wall instead,

no way in or out of myself,

making friends with paintbrushes and seasonal decorations,

struggling to see the irony in people watching through my warped window

Now I realize the air is stale and smells only of me

I find myself missing the touch of skin on skin,

mincing words like red onions,

dancing in a drunken stupor,

cooking with someone else’s hands

Until I remember I’d have to unlock the door

and I go back to being walls and floors

instead of all the things within