Flick of a Switch

I am not heartbroken.
I have simply chosen to feel things I had put to the side,
in the ugly plaid cat-piss infested guest room of my life.
The place where bad report cards are shoved under the bed,
the carpet has stains,
the speaker of one half of the stereo doesn't do anything but-ssssszzzzsssszzzzssstatic.
I slammed the door on my houseguests, life guests, and forgot to air it out.
So there they are, crowded in, festering and needing showers.
They didn't die, ironically.
And they look the same.
I half expected them to die.
Nope, just the same.
Lined up, ready to be graciously escorted out the front door. Or invited back in with a new place to stay. My room? My art studio? How about the backyard. That's a start.
I think most of them wanted to check out a long time ago,
but subconciously I liked having someone....anyone...in the guest room.
Not my room....
Shit, that sucker's been redone eighteen times this year.
And it still doesn't look right.

That's how I wound up peeking in here, and seeing all the storage piled up.
Swoop...I am getting it out.
Letter by letter, rant after rant, and then this happened:
I moved.
And through no fault of my own, the house burned down a day later.
Today.