Room (1st draft)

My dishes lie in

the sink,

unclean.

My baggage is next to

my windows, 

closed curtains.

My desk sits at

an empty wall,

brick textured.

My clothes thrown on

a chair,

unfolded. 

My bed sheets hang from

the mattress,

holding on.

—

I sit in the center of my room,

the star from which my world revolves around,

existing in a space of my own making

but being unable to alter the course it’s on.

On the outside

it is quiet.

On the inside

it is violent,

with thoughts and voices

(some not my own)

that threaten to cause a black hole

or the heat death of the universe.

So,

as I sit here in the center of my room

questioning what to do,

the world keeps spinning

and I along with it.