For sale. For free.

Like a child feels safe in the presence of her mother,

I do not feel safe in the confinements of the four walls.

It is not special, not for you not for me.

I call it my own.

I call it a prison sometimes. Yet…

I appreciate it.

The materials in it mean nothing.

The memories mean less.

One more time.

I say it’s four walls.

Others say a home.

I mean not call it a curse.

I mean call it a room.

Adding and subtracting to the white stare.

I tried it once.

I’ll keep my side, I won’t force yours.

My bad. Our room. Is. For. Us. To. Share.

Share?

You can keep it.

The floor is my bed.

As it is for others.

I have four walls.

Others have one if they’re lucky.

What I meant to elaborate, I have digressed.

This room of mine puts a little guilt.

Room sweet room? Make. Me. Puke.

What you have ,and I, is a fluke…