Roundabout

It's so easy for me to get lost places, whether it's somewhere outside or just inside my own head. Never really been good with directions, I like to go the same ways that I always go. Inner comfort and all that bullshit. 

It has its pros and cons, as my mind often takes me back to places I don't want to be.

My childhood bedroom, with beige walls and twistable crayons on the  carpet. Radio on repeat as I stared wide-eyed into the dark. Mom and dad had been working a lot, I knew they were getting frustrated with me yelling for them at night, so I held off as long as possible. Getting up to go to the bathroom wasn't an option. While I was at school, mom would strip my wetted sheets and put them in the wash.

The spacious, modern hospice room. I'm sure the dark-stained hardwood floors and minimalistic artwork sure saw a lot of blood and piss. There was this little inlet built into the room, hiding in the corner with a pullout couch and coffee table. I set up camp there. Although, the morning she died, my things were shoved aside when someone brought blueberry muffins. Really cheered up the mood but did nothing for the smell. 

His cluttered bedroom, with curling wallpaper and dusty windowsills. His queen sized mattress didn't have sheets, had the puffy diamond pattern with a few stains on it. Didn't really think too much at the time what they could be. The shades were bent and peeling apart and it smelled stale in there even though the window was inched open. Even through the drunk haze, I can feel the pressure of his hands as if they never even left. 

If I try going anywhere new, I just go around in circles. Inner comfort and all that bullshit.