My bedroom is my sanctuary
even though I lived in many
and migrated through many.
I had a room of my own until I was 15.
I started writing poetry though when I was 14.
A year with a room of my own,
to write my poetry.
Virginia would have been pleased with me.
But then …
I was sent into a new culture
I had never truly known.
Then it was camp beds
Pull out beds
Never did feel quite at home
Everywhere I went I was a guest.
Even when I was born in my country,
leaving it I was its guest,
coming back I was its guest.
It affected my head
living like nomad
I could make anywhere my home
but the thing is my home was only
where I could truly be myself
and nowhere could I be myself.
My home was in a bedroom in a different country far away,
and perhaps it was never quite my home
When I returned that bedroom was taken away.
I lost my bedroom.
I had not really written the way I wanted to since the day I left.
In a world where you never feel at home
your bedroom sorta becomes your home
but when the bedroom goes
where does the poet in you go?
Especially when that poet lacks confidence
is an all round mess
and can’t think coherently
when there’s so many versions and stories
of the reality being thrown continuously.
It was a long journey in search of the truth
and she definitely didn’t find it speedily.
Every poet needs a room of their own.
Every girl needs a room of her own.
Especially when the world still stops her from expressing herself
in the manner she so desperately craves.
Now – finally able to afford my own place
my room is my cave where I take off all the masks
and rub off all the labels society drew onto me
And I sit in my bed so comfortably
so ready to just be me.
I long for the day I can be me outside of me.
For although time seems timeless within,
in the outer world it ticks on slowly,
it trots to the outer-world’s rot-trot..
Right now just sitting right in this lair
plotting a way
to make it all happen.