It’s where I spent most of my time.

Spending time in the clouds that hang above on a daily basis.

Trying to brush away the past and focus on the future ahead, but a part of me finds comfort in the fog. I know what it feels like and what it looks like.

To me, it’s a room that I’ve built for myself.

I’ve added posters to the walls, curtains from the windows, and even hung the clothes in the closet, knowing I’d spend most of my time here.

My childhood is here. The room is filled with barbie dolls, littlest pet shop, and anything pink. The little girl who was searching for a friend found comfort here.

My teenage years were spent painting the walls black, locking the door and blocking the noise out with the sound of my radio growing louder and louder. Loosing myself in the pages of a book that explained all the things trapped inside my mind. I kept the blind closed to the light that I didn’t want to see yet.

The beginning years of my adulthood were spent here. I continued to add books to the shelves, the weight growing heavier to match the weight of what I felt on my shoulders. Realizing I didn’t have to carry a weight that wasn’t mine to begin with.

The room I built seemed smaller with all the boxes of memories and things I had taken in from other people. I was suffocating myself with feelings that weren’t even mine. Feelings I had held onto for everyone else, except the feelings that I had ignored for myself.

The room I built was collecting the words and feelings of those around me.

I had built it to accommodate the space for others, not myself.

The door needed to be opened so I could allow myself the room to breathe.

I needed a room that was meant for me to grow. A room that allowed the space for me to unbox my things and get to know them for myself.

A room where I finally felt at home and was able to open the door

For the thoughts inside my head.

-K.