Not a room to write in. I’d prefer to write on the grass, in the sun. With a big warm space to pace around in.
A room to dance in. Because I like to pretend that I dance well, and that everyone is watching. But I don’t want anyone to see.
A room to cry in. Because I don’t want to explain to anyone. Because I want to listen to the same bad, angry music that made me happy when I was fifteen.
A room to read in. Because I shut everyone out when I read.
A room to sing in. Because I’m a terrible singer.
A room to talk to myself in. Because that’s how I make sense of the world.