eesha cherukuri
I share my room with a little boy,
quite the enigma—
He comes in when he wants to come in
leaves when he wants to leave
and hardly touches a thing
He sings the same song over and over,
repeating melodies that are not his
changing his movement, expression, voice
a well-used puppet.
His face shifts like sand.
I share my room with a little girl,
boisterous yet respectful—
she comes in when I want her to come in
leaves when I want her to leave
and she always cleans up after herself
She speaks to her friends over and over
repeating conversations that are not hers
changing her words, her emphasis, her voice
a broken record.
Her face shifts like sand.
I share my room with a world
It’s quite cramped now—
people come in when they want to come in
leave when they want to leave
and my room is a mess that no one will clean up
I feel them singing and talking and being
reciting melodies and conversations and lives that are not theirs
changing themselves
puppets and records and angels and demons and eyes and eyes and eyes staring at me,
brown, black, blue, broken.
Their faces shift like sand
and I scramble to mold them into something solid and dependable
yet they shift and shift and shift
and I laugh to myself and keep molding.
I share my room with no one
yet it’s always full.
This is what I do–
hallucinate
and then put it on paper.