"Don’t look at me," I once said. My laugh as fake as care. 

We picked the color of my room so I may never grow out of it. My room is midnight black. My walls leak poisonous energy into the room. Lights tint unnaturally. My dresser is a wooden desk. My parents say that we were too good for a regular dresser. Fake smiles falter sometimes. The dark oak dresser had been hit by a train. Splinters fall every day. 

The wood inches over to stab me while I sleep, on a homemade artificial mattress that's more like a cot than anything with feathers. 

My house is small, fit for a mouse. Not fit for any humans. My window is cracked, I am exposed to the world outside. I am in denial. 

Help.