I Hate This Room

I hate this room.

It's so fake.

Looks like it's happy and tidy

But it hides a mess.

Like a haunted house with new paint-

Toys and dolls, like any girl

Hides the empty inside me.

This empty feeling I hate.

They didn't take pictures after "it" happened.

She didn't want to remember that time, I guess.

In all the old pictures,

I look truly happy-

I guess that was the last time I was.

"Hardly have any pictures of you," he says.

Don't say it as if you don't know why.

"I was never like you!" she screams,

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

What is wrong with me?

What is wrong with me?

I'm stupid.

I'm cold.

I'm empty.

I'm the shell of a life that could've been something-

The outside hiding shadows and dust inside.

The white-washed grave

Hiding dead man's bones.

I hate this room.

It was finished before she got sick.

It's like time froze back then.

And keeping it together makes it worse.

Why do I need these notes?

To remind me I really exist.

But I'm not really there, though.

I'm not really real.

A facade for what secrets nothing has.

I wish I could quit-

Throw in the towel.

Burn those pictures.

Erase myself from everyone's memories.

Burn this haunted house to the ground.

I wish I never happened. 

I wish that car had hit me when I was four.

I wish I could leave seamlessly,

Replacing me with someone as on happy on the inside

As she is on the outside.

I wish I ran away last year.

I wish no one would care if I ran away.

Oh wait, they won't.

I hate this room.

It's so fake.