When your own space rejects you
the walls creep in when you least expect it.
The clock sneers
And holds her breath like one of those bitch-ass girls
from school who scorn you.

The kaleidoscope of abandoned shirts, socks, pants,
empty cans, books and DVD’s
that frame you
all of sudden look impeccably dressed beneath all the dustballs
and whisper, as though you hadn’t cleaned some cat vomit
off of them a day or two ago.

You attempt to take possession
of the room
After all, you own all this damn crap
that now berates you 

You narrow your eyes and snort
even though your throat is parched and erratic.
You screech like a vulture
throw shit around
bury stuff in drawers, the closet

You can’t fuck with me, you shout
you jump on the bed
and defile it
claiming supremacy

Get your ass down here, Gordon! Mom yells.

You punch the bed once more
I’ll be back, you threaten the room
and head down for dinner

Your mom and dad study you
while you gag over the mashed potatoes
A landscape of refugees
attempting to cross the border
illegally.

– Meg Tuite