I don't want to tidy my room.
I can't be bothered.
I'm too tired.
I feel slightly sick
(All the time),
Even more sickening is
The thoughts in my head,
The things
That happened here,
The things
I've done here.
Things I can't erase.
But I can clutter up this space,
Fill bare, alien walls
With things I can call mine.
