The Room Upstairs

Ten years of pale mint 

and posters

painted over by another decade of zebra stripes and purple walls.

My childhood embedded 

and stitched 

on every inch of that beige carpet. 

Carefully placed stuffed animals once inhaled the scent of cucumber melon

and crisp linen Lysol as they watched me pack eighteen years of life into a suitcase.

It was hard to leave the first time,

but I knew my bed would forever be made

except when I took it with me,

to the room upstairs.

It's bigger 

and lighter

with crisp white walls 

accented with hints of sea foam green.

There's a place in the corner,

illuminated by the sun,

for my books to breathe

and where I can sit and read for days. 

The room encapsulates my core;

neat and tidy,

structured and serious

delicate and simple.

but traces of innocence forever remain 

in the scratches of my wooden dresser

carried from below

and the same stuffed animals

inhale the same scents, mixed now with lavender and coconut 

I can't go back

nor would I want to

because I never changed,

but I never stayed the same.