XIII

I. Everyday, I wake to the cold air of the hibiscus room. And everyday, I retire to the same bitter air that brings me no comfort.

II. No consolidation. No reminder that 'tomorrow is another day'.

III. Is that all tomorrow is? Just another day?

IV. Are my breaths just breaths? Are my tears just tears?

V. This room never ceases to leave me in the dark. Never giving me my answers, so I resort to asking myself.

VI. But why won't you answer me? Instead of bringing me closure, you shake your tattered curtains as if to shrug off my inquiries.

VII. Why. Why do you refuse to answer me. There's a reason why you always leave your doors open for me, so why won't you tell me?

VIII. I always find myself asking the useless questions when I leave the safety of the hibiscus room
- when I leave to the cruel reality of the world. If I could choose between the hibiscus room, filled with my unconscious sorrows, and the ugly reality of the real world, I would forever choose the in between.

IX. In between the hibiscus room and the world is a small fantasy that I burried with my childhood years ago. It was a fantasy I - we - created to escape to. It was for just the two of us. It was beautifully chaotic. But so much changed, and the hurricane swept everything away for me to rebuild what we started. I've molted that world by the finger tips that etched these scars into my skin. Each groove, each mountain. Each bruise, each crater. That fantasy is almost a mirror of myself. A reflection of the me I don't want to be.

X. I haven't touched it in so long, and I refuse to revisit it. Now, I look at it with the dim glow of hope that if I held enough strength, I could get rid of this painful reminder.

XI. I always return to the hibiscus room, and I always find myself staring at the oversized clock that sits by the dormant fireplace. I count every number; 1, 2, 3, 4... 12, 13. There is only one clock in the hibiscus room, and it has 13 numbers. I can only count up to 3 before my hands start to burn. I only knew three. I will never know the other 10.

XII. This room is a toxic cage that bares a familiar scent I always find myself coming back to, despite how it suffocates me. These fragile walls and cracked windows provide a disgusting haven for me. I shouldn't come back here. I shouldn't come back here. I shouldn't come back here. I deserve better. But here I am, bringing flowers I've picked from the outside to the inside. Just so they can die in this dust filled air. The morning light rarely shines in here. I purposely bring these tiny hopes inside for them to die. I purposely watch the life gradually fade away. And it's the most beautiful thing I've ever witnessed.

XIII. Hopefully my death will be just as graceful.