Alone in my room,
tied with invisible coughs of denial to my bed,
sour throat, sole head
corner table, stale bread.
Pink signified delicacy quite well
but my pink room with pink flower wall-paper on my left corner and pink make up box right in front and pink geometary wall-paper all-over was never that frangible to me.
From alone to lonely in my small, suffocating pink room,
I was so tiny when witches fled brooms
and set off with fumes.
In the course of time, many of my myths got doomed.
How else am I supposed to conclude?
BOOM BOOM BOOM?
My old, lonely, microscopic, pink room,
we have fought a lot of conflicts together,
we have been victimised and bothered, scruitiny has been a loyal brother, make-up smothered,
screams and cries and squeals, covered. But I still can’t hate you less for always being there at my bad times ignoring the good times.
But I still can’t hate you less for being there when I did not want you or even when I did want you.
And I still can’t hate you less because I know you hate me equally
negative and negative isn’t positive.
It never will be.