Room

I remember
you sharing me with your brother when you were ten.
I was ok with Michael Jordan posters and a pink lampshade.
But the striking of puberty arrived so soon
and I sighed as he gathered his stuff and left me with you.
The agony. You painted the entirety of my walls purple
and I cringed at those flowery bed sheets and curtains.

I remember
your myopia, under construction with Nancy Drew
under yellow light. In the middle of the night you wailed
and waited for angels. “My mom hates me”, you would cry.
If only I had an arm to console or a mouth to encourage.
But all I had was a curtain rod, a built-in closet, and
a wooden bed that you went home to during those wailing nights.

I remember
that you once traded me for your boyfriend’s.
For days it was all blindness and a sleeping light switch, and
pillows with temporary Botox that I wished were wrinkled again.
Your hair strands littered the floor for no one was there to sweep them.
No curtains were parted in the morning, no sun illuminated my insides.
You were some place else, parting someone else’s curtains.

I remember
yesterday, your parents were babbling about
packing up and leaving in a few months’ time.
I thought, “My walls might be painted white again”.
Hmm, I like that. But I’m anxious about the new girl whom I’ll be with
when you leave. You see, I’ve come to like you over the years
and I despise seeing her re-paint my walls.

I remember
the doodles you would draw on my wall next to your bed. You goon.
But really, marks of your stay here I will eternally keep
even when spiders start to creep after, say, a few decades.
My walls might be re-painted, and re-painted, and re-painted
by all of them who’ll come after you, but I’m sure of one thing.
They’ll attempt to cover up your purple, but they won’t be able to.