My Bedroom is No Longer Pink

My childhood bedroom is in a glass jar where I watch myself dance along the pink walls

And my bookshelf is stuffed with stories of magic treehouses and Warrior cats.

If you look close enough, callouses decorate my hands from all the times I chased my sister

Around the cul-de-sac on a bike that was jut a little too big for me

And the scrapes on my knees are a reminder of how fast I could run down the empty streets

On a Sunday afternoon.

And the only worries I had were the grass stains on my new pair of jeans

And waking up early enough to catch the school bus.

But somewhere between the endless laughter and the sleepless nights before field trips

And the numb limbs from playing in the snow for too long.

We shed our crayons and coloring books and stuffed animals

And traded our playdates for late-night phone calls under the blanket

In hopes that no one would hear us.

I am now looking at myself through a one-way mirror

Wondering when in time I had started to lose myself.

There is a crack in the glass from my finger

From where I spent too long tapping on it, trying to see past the white walls and catch a glimpse of pink

As if painting over unicorns and stars would help me grow up faster.

Now I realize the house that I spent my whole life growing up in.

I do not call home anymore.