My own room.
My own shelves.
My own books.
My own closet.
My own clothes.
My own trinkets.
Though I can physically touch all these things,
I feel like I am stuck in a memory.
It is as if everything is a part of who I used to be.
Either that or I have forgotten a part of who I am.
So many things;
Colorful, random, weird, seemingly out of place,
All remind me of the me I think I knew.
The me that was seen as "Spazzy Jazzy"
Hidden things I find amongst all these;
Art, poetry, prose, lyric, decoration even,
Show an unhealthy side of me.
They bring back ungrateful memories of the me no one could ever see.
The me with the tears in her eyes,
The me with the knife in her bathroom drawer,
The me with the bruises and bruised heard,
The me behind the mask on her face.
I am none of these.
I no longer feel that I live up to the me that was "Spazzy Jazzy"
And I know I've left the other side forever.
So then, who am I?
I do not know and I fear I'll never discover it here.
Did I lose my spunk?
I feel that I have.
I long to have spunk again, to be random and silly and spazzy
I thought that was me
It was me once,
Was it not?
Or was it all a charade to make others feel that I'm okay.
I miss the adventure.
I miss the laughing.
I miss the dancing.
I miss the variously colored painted nails.
I miss the random words, subjects, and conversations.
I miss the spontaneity.
What happened to me?
Now I am boring.
Now I am foolish.
Now I am mute.
This home has trapped all my old memories inside.
This home has become my asylum.
This home has lost the feeling of a home.
This home has remained the same.
It is I who has changed.