As a child, being sent to
your room was seen as a punishment.
Tonight, I’ve voluntarily
exiled myself behind this closed door.
Don’t you dare trespass;
self-righteous, I’m officially pouting.

Go ahead and speculate
that I’m hogging both sides of the bed,
wearing muddy shoes,
crushing your pillow under my head.
For all you know, I’m
simply recollecting old girlfriends.

Since self-pity appears
indulgent, illogical with the lights on,
I lie in the dark and fume,
wanting my silence to infuriate you.
Don’t bother to call,
the extension has been disconnected.

Resourceful, I might be
counting backwards from a million,
reciting Shakespeare,
mumbling like Brando, or maybe
I’m just lying here
convinced nobody understands me.

Even though this bed
makes the perfect trampoline and
sleep forgives all sins,
my wounded pride is a scared boy.
How long must I wait
before you come to investigate?


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