I sit down on this bed which now has a new mattress. I can still feel the broken slats though. They gave up years ago when we would play catch with my big brother and he went all John Cena on me. We never told our parents and when they eventually discovered it, blamed the ominous passing of Time.

It now almost looks like a hotel, with those blank walls and this empty desk. Except I know it isn’t fully the case. Because those walls still bear marks of that time I stepped on the curtains and the bar fell, leaving black scratchings on the side. That ink stain that, despite everything, simply would not let go, along with the holes my ex left in the sheets. And this empty desk has not always been this way, for there were nights when I would stay up during unGodly hours in front of a Word document, scratching my head and bring out my lighter once all souls were dead asleep. The marks of all the youthful shit I have done are and always will be there, somehow. There are memories one simply cannot just scrub away.

And yet, one day I will be gone, and so will they. They exist only in my mind, which even now get lost sometimes. Everything shifts, everyone dies inside only to be born again.

I stare at the same ceiling I used to stare for days in a row and I smile, softly. God knows my younger self would have laughed at me for smoking with my head out the window, all uptight. Lifetimes ago I used to throw whole-ass hot boxing seshes once the clock struck midnight.

Yeah, time has passed. I see it my father’s wrinkles, the plants that have gone dry, or when I walk past this mirror the same way I did when I was sixteen and so fucking naïve. Like a stranger in an old picture.

Is this bedroom still mine?Will my new home ever feel fine?

I am changing faster than weeks go by, sometimes I don’t know what is Home, other times I forget who I am.

And yet Hell knows that none of that matter, for I too, sha