Why is this room so cold?
this wasn't how it was supposed to be.
The room was small, with bright pastel blue covering every surface, it's now faded into a dull colour. Cracks cover the corners, dust clogs the wooden floor boards. Light doesn't even want to enter the dull room, avoiding it at all costs. Is it the dust? Is that why it's so uninviting to the light. Maybe it's just the gloomy atmosphere.
The space breathes nothing but silence.
Laughter was what I wanted, not dead flies under the broken windowsill, not a toy train set that will never be finished. Instead of laughter and smiles, it's replaced with tears.
So many tears.
The tears lessened overtime of course, instead of crying whenever I entered the room. I felt cold, it was like a numbing feeling.
Knitted blue booties lay forgotten on the floor, eroding into the dusted planks. The unopened books filled with unseen colours sit crooked on the dirty bookshelf, waiting for someone, anyone to read them. If only the books could spread colour into this little blue room.
Was it my fault?
Expectations, dreams, plans, it was just gone, giving no chance for preparation. As if it had no meaning, no importance, no love, no nothing.
Nothing.
I hate myself for not crying anymore, I wish I could cry. It takes too much strength that I don't hold anymore. The guilt makes it worse. God, it just makes it so much worse. Makes it so hard, I just want to turn back time. Just once, the amount of times I've prayed and begged, for just one more chance.
Please.
Cold and blue is all I ever feel now. Instead of forgetting about the room, forgetting everything it holds and turning away. It sucks me in, reminding me of what could of been here, what could of happened, what I could have done. It whispers to me, it whispers all the time underneath the locked door.
At the end of the day, it always ends up unlocked.
The only thing in this little room that was not blue, was the white cradle that sat underneath the window. I chose the colour white to make it stand out from the room, however the white has dulled too. Dead bugs lay inside the cradle, so does a blue rattle. The rattle probably wouldn't make noise even if shaken, it's been left here too long.
Forgotten.
How many years has it been now? Too many. I've ended up as blue as this room, the dense blue matches my eyes, eyes which were once filled with a moving ocean. My skin matches the floorboards, old, dusted, and cold. I used to have so much colour inside of me, like the forgotten books on the bookshelf. My hair has turned more grey than the cradle.
I wish you were here, "my little boy."
End.
