Room Tour

PTSD about my old room

Hoodies lie on the floor in
this pink carpeted room,
sometimes I feel okay being
naked. Bandages protect

the fabric holding my wrists
together, hiding my anger issues.
My desk is full of unwanted
tears and papers full of half-hearted

attempts at letting go, but an aura
of morose filled journals instead. The
corner remains desolate full of
unwashed cobwebs and an abandoned

nightstand. Med bottles were dusty-
rejected by my body, because zoloft
made me feel disconnected from happiness.
My eyes spied two rickety wooden doors

and my heart began suffering from PTSD-

that closet was my prison cell for years,
and my cellmate was the skeleton my
parents hung.

Author's Note

Any criticism is good