My dorm room looks exactly the same
this semester as it did last year.
I can still see the anguish
in the spots I stared at while lying,
on my back, defeated, in my bed.
The desk hasn't changed -
and neither has the spot I'd rest
my forehead against while thinking
of another depressing rhyme to write.
But something this year is different,
whether it's the chairs that lean back,
or that I've simply accepted who I am.
My room this year is no longer painful,
and while memories sometimes haunt me
of the sobs I at one time let out,
they are all easily healed
when you say you love me,
and to have sweet dreams.