Rooms that hold what we don’t name.

My room was always my space;  

it followed its own logic that only I could understand.  

A drooping tree lived outside my window;  

its pink and white flowers blossomed and then fell like snow,  

and sometimes its branches would scratch the siding as if to say hello.  

In the winter, a snowplow would arrive before dawn,  

its headlights cast the only light outside,  

illuminating the fairy house I had built from the snow.  

The exterior of my house is quiet, consistent, and peaceful,  

but the interior tells a far more vivid story.  

The walls shifted from purple to pink,  

then to blue and green, and finally to gray.  

The floorboards are scarred with old paint and glue,  

and holes remain where my One Direction posters once hung.  

Now, all of my clothes have been moved out,  

with only haphazard reminders of my childhood.