It was silent, but for an echoing creak
the day I steped inside.
"Speak to me", I breathed into the emptyiness of the crypt.
Quiet, whispered the bedroom door,
shut constantly to barricade its master.
Drown the world, wailed the headphones
that screeched obscenities.
Artist, sighed the paint splattered easel and
her latest, last, masterpiece.
Smart, said the aced tests
that cluttered her desk.
Was she expecting something great, inquired the calendar,
marked with X’s to count the days of the past.
She’s was good girl, muttered the parents,
who didn’t really know her at all.
A silent girl, added the books
balanced on the cracked mahogany shelves
on the velvet of her walls.
She wasn’t popular, murmured her phone
and its nonexistent texts.
She wanted to be liked, wailed the magazines
, strewn across her violet floor.
She had to leave, cried the teardrops on her empty suitcase
and the crumpled pages of her diary.
Where every word on every page howled
of her wish to belong
, for someone to listen
as the room returned to its slumber.