I look around me


I look around me and I ask myself
Where am I?

The bed, the wardrobe, the bookcase, the vanity mirror, the computer table.
They're not mine.

They're the furniture he picked out for me.
They're the furniture Mom bought for me.
They're not mine.

I try to fill every nook and cranny with pieces of me
But it still doesn't feel as if I'm truly here.

I've been living on other people's taste,
Catering to other people's words like a hungry puppy,
Willing to roll over for treats.

I feel strange in the one place that is me: My bedroom.
I feel strange that the one place I find comfort, is not here with me.
I don't even know where he is or what he's doing.

I feel stupid for basing my comfort in such a delicate place.
I feel sold-out for slobbering like a puppy over his every word.
I feel like a used up piece of trash.

I feel so stupid for prioritizing him over my friends.
And now they left me.
And maybe so will he.

I look around me
And I sigh.

What have I done?