I remember the first time
that an arrow of sadness pierced my heart
like a grim cupid’s bow.
I was born a pisces,
sensitive water sign,
and so every time I cried, it was seen as simple nature.
as I grew, I was comforted by the still dark.
dark rooms polluted with fear, like a dark cloud of smoke,
while I hold the door shut
with my back up against it
as he tried to break it open.
the room smelled like aloe vera soap.
dark rooms, glowing beams of blue light,
dancing shadows powered by fog juice.
I could be who I was, uncontrollable and giggly,
and yet I still met new faces
from states away
who led lives much more glamorous than mine.
at home, I wondered why I couldn’t stop stuttering.
dark rooms alone, with him, when I was eighteen
and time would stop when a
knock came from the hallway
while my fingers were in his hair.
the icicles in our lungs melted and crashed.
I am attracted to the printed word
because my voice doesn’t shake or stutter.
what I have realized is that everything
sounds beautiful when you take the time to make it sound so,
“Dark Rooms” — Jenna Wenzlaff