the vents in my room
have never worked a day in their life
when it’s cold they make it colder,
and when it’s hot they break down
i have yet to fix the clocks
that run backward and melt in the rain
but lately it seems whatever i touch
doesn’t survive the black hole in my room.
everyday i write then curse my hands,
and soon a thick dust settles on my notebook,
i sit in content silence
collecting the grime as a prize.
and so my room has fallen
into disarray around me
i stand still in the middle of it all,
maybe i am the reason
i try so hard to convince myself
that it is all for a reason
but my eyes, a blight to my body,
know i do not deserve anything but this torture.
this black hole.
Editors: Blenda Y., Uzayer M., Alisha B.
Image Source: Evan Lee, Unsplash