Eggshell white.

Chipped paint, cobwebs, dirty cups of day-old pink lemonade

Ruffled sheets weaving over and under fluffy figures of feather and fuzz

Posters blanketing the air-conditioned walls,

carefully taped music prints dangling atop a seemingly ancient bed

My grandfather's old bed.

Sometimes, when I lie awake, eyes toward the ceiling,

I can still sense his bony fingers sinking into my shoulder

A shiver running up my spine, his rough voice slicing through my earlobes.

But I am safe here, under my covers, head upon my pillow,

stuffed pig that was passed down from mother to brother curled up in my palm.

The poster I was gifted as an inside joke from my brother

The baby dolls that were passed down to me as soon as I left the hospital

The hung art peices my aunt painted for me when I turned two

The Taylor Swift prints that ook me hours to place upon the walls

The walls that protect me from this cold, cruel world.

This room is mine.

It always has been.

2009, 1989, and now... 2023

And it awlways will be Mine

Through the Castles Crumlbing, the Midnight Rain,

and Sweet Nothings that keep me whole.

Through the Love Stories, the Better Men, and the Very First Nights.

This is my haven, my Holy Ground

As I lie beneath sheets

Eyes to the ceiling

Surrounded by eggshell white.