Constricting, containing, holding me in place are the yellow walls of my room. They're empty, only a shelf or two containing quarters and old cards. Yellow walls that have seen me break down, yellow walls that have seen me look out the window on a dark winter night, begging to see the fallen snow on the ground, but all I can see is the reflection of myself as the bright light from my room shines down on it. I'm psychologically forced to stare at my tear-stained expression, hair tousled and sticking up in different directions from hands repeatedly running through it.
These yellow walls have seen me be outrageously happy as well- laughing at my own broken up singing and finally getting the details right in a difficult drawing. As I smile so much my face hurts because I come home from a fun day with my dad and brother.
But a lot of times, I find myself laying on my bed, eyes practically nailed to my phone and they dart to the small childish stickers beside me. I feel a small smile start to tug at my mouth, a rush of energy telling me, prodding me to get up and off the bed, to laugh and create more memories with my family.
The rush starts to fade.
It starts little by little, dragging myself down with it like a bad dream. A motionless dream that I can't shake, because of all the times i've seem my own shadow shake as I stared straight at the small butterflies and fireflies stickered into the wall. The times I've wanted to just punch the wall, to cause jolts of pain running up my arm and into my shoulder. Leaving a numb pain in a bruised and bloodied hand.
All the times I wanted to scream into the pillow that's been tear stained too many times. All the times I'm confined by these yellow walls.
