The walls are white and flawless
Except for that purple handprint
She slapped on ten years ago
And the angsty, faded posters
Of long forgotten bands
And of course, the ten feet chain
Of paper clips
She’d spent all Christmas making,
The glossy photographs of beaming friends
Who’d shoved her in the dusty corner
Of their minds
Next to their motheaten blankies and teddy bears,
Torn out pages of yearbooks
Bearing false wishes of happiness,
The tacky framed painting
Her mom bought at the thrift store,
Laminated movie stubs,
Crumpled concert tickets,
The shoelaces from the sneakers
She’d been wearing when she met
that indie band
no one else at school had heard of
All pinned on the ratty bulletin board
pockmarked with push pin holes,
And the window
on the other wall,
bathing her room in
blinding
sunlight,
But, other than that,
flawless.