Pink and spotted, I’m vibrant but childish
I see the same bed, whether it be made or a mess
The dampness of its sheets after a wash
I cannot touch it, only as it brushes past me
The room’s inhabitant is as messy as the bed
Sometimes I believe I hear my name
As if a voice is calling out to me from the mirror
It shows only my reflection, the same pattern
It’s boring and constant, shiny with the light
The room’s inhabitant spends hours with the mirror
I cannot move, stuck in place until my destruction
I am support for the popcorn ceiling
A contrast to my pinkness, it’s white
Bland but elegant, if not for the small spikes
The room’s inhabitant stares at the ceiling
Every night it is the same noise
The crying from the bedsheets hidden from the ceiling
Turned away from the mirror, seeing me as comfort
I do not change and it appreciates me for that
The room’s inhabitant does not love herself
