Sometimes,
I just want to be alone.
I want to cuddle
in one corner of my room
until my thoughts
stop gyrating at the same time
as the ceiling fan
But the more
its blades oscillate,
the more
a headache intensifies,
and the more
my body shrinks into a fetal position
until I am trapped
in a womb of uncertainty
ii
I think the carpet
has grown apathy towards my skin.
It used to embrace me
until I fell asleep.
Now,
it pinches me with every fiber
of its being
as if it's trying to push me
to stand on my feet,
but I resist like a fetus
who isn't ready
to be born into society
yet
the mother's uterus
contracts
in preparation for delivery
and the labor process
begins
iii
I feel my bedroom's walls
contracting me, pressuring me out
just as the carpet
I feel the tension in my spine,
in my limbs, in my mouth.
I just want to cry
but instead,
I stand up, I turn off the fan
and I go out
into the hallway outside my bedroom
to find my mom
standing in front of me;
awaiting
for the moment
that I would cry,
