I want to stop being a room.
By this, I mean I fit people’s uses of me
and I change accordingly—
I will make a safe space for you to feel loved,
I will give you somewhere to cry,
I will be there for you when you want
to fuck someone, when you want to scream at something,
when you’re angry, I have breakable things
that don’t mean much to me.
By this I mean,
I let a freshman call me irresponsible—
she’d just left her credit card with a stranger
because she wanted to feel secure to her own detriment,
to be too comfortable. I curled around her for a moment
and let her be safe, so she could go back into the dark night
and know what that would honestly feel like.
Then later I watched boys break people passing by,
flinging words at anyone who crossed their front lawn
because they wanted to be belligerently angry
on their frat roof top one more time.
I bet they were angry, I mean I surely was,
and they definitely found things to break.
Someone else fucked in my room last night.
It was necessary & vital & made two people very happy &
feel safe & helped them move on
but neither of those people were me.
These are the spaces I leave for people.
There is this Southern phrase my mom always says to me—
that I wasn’t born a window, more a door.
I’ve always wished it were true—
I want to be door slam in your face door,
lock you out door, never break down
door that’s hinges shriek when it does not wish to be touched,
when it does not want to bend or even budge anymore,
unforgiving and loud and heavy,
very much there door.
This room has had too many different uses
to really know if it can be called home.