What hides this room I live in? Is it some seductive secret about my life as a Queen of my own planet, or simply the long awaited truth I have been looking for? Clothes are strewn over the carpet giving it the beauty of a thing unkept. However, my wardrobe is the simplest form of the clutter. Matters become more complicated as I melt into the books and paper smiling up at me from under the bed. Who knows what sort of criminal acts they could reveal?! Most prominent in this disarray is thumping of something enormously false. Could it be the normalcy I am trying so desperately to convey?
Typical to have a bedspread groaning under the stress of makeup, straighteners, and unmatched shoes, but what of the ticking smell of gun powder oozing from under the rug? How can I go back and explain the artistic display of blood spots? Much can belong to the room of the cluttered stranger. It could be a cave of secrets- discoveries I wish I'd never made. It this, perhaps, the reason a bedroom is claimed to be such a personal space- because it hides the stories I never told or is my bedroom really my own?
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