i laugh the hardest when I'm alone in my room.
why is it that i can only seem to allow myself to fully feel my emotions in the quiet of a confined space turned confidante?
weeping and hurling was all i knew to do, but now that laughter echoes from the center of my chest bouncing off the walls surrounding me–i'm a stranger to this place, it told me so.
no longer am i handcuffed to the darkness underneath my mattress, no longer does it suck me into its comfortably tight crevices, no longer do the white walls make me feel clinically insane, no longer does the sound of silence drive me up their colorless surfaces.
so why keep my joy a secret? who's it keeping cover from? why give these four walls the satisfaction of drowning me at my lowest and yet getting the highest cries of euphoria from this little girl who's grown up?
perhaps my moral is grey like the curtains over my windows and closet.
