By Roshni Riar, Staff Writer
My landlord won’t mind
what she doesn’t know,
like when I hang out
the second-floor window
to blow smoke up towards
the moon. Like when I lean
too hard against the mirror,
challenging each and every
single pore to a standoff
and I hear a crack somewhere
behind my reflection and
the picture dips ever so slightly.
Like when I don’t know what
to do, how to belong, how to
exist in a space that I know isn’t
my own, even when I desperately
want to find something to call
my own. Like when I wake up
crying at six am because I’m so
overwhelmed by the things
that just keep piling and piling
and piling and piling
and piling
so, I walk to Rona and buy a can
of paint. Like when I paint
the bathroom green and the living
room purple, kitchen yellow
and the bedroom black. Just to forget.
My landlord, she doesn’t need to know
because I don’t want her to remind
me of what I’m trying to cover up
with two coats of Behr pearl finish.
