Holes in Walls

The walls in my bedroom are pock-marked with wounds. Like all scars, they too tell a story

For years they have stared at me,
black stars on a film negative.
They were portals, at one point;
Pin-sized holes that allowed fantasy
To float above me,
Guard me in my sleep,
and be there to wish me a good morning.
The very first stirrings of hormones,
Ushered quickly in the glossy visages
Of those I dreamed of.

They sat empty as I let my fantasies go,
Keeping to myself the things I loved.
A room decorated in blackness;
What would the neighbors think?
But yet, I allowed myself to go out into the world
Cloaked in darkness, chains, absurdity.

Then I grew up, moved away and on.

Now the black stars are empty,
Portals now to the space between rooms.
New ones are made,
Holding up calendars, a disgraceful degree,
And symbols of the new adult that occupies this space.
Some of the old holes get filled again;
With the familiar pegging of a thumb-tack,
They seem to release a sigh,
As if to say “Finally,
Love has returned again.”