room

A small bit of pain stained my face. Two of my left-hand fingers slid down two tiny scratches beside my eye. They had been drawn by my cat’s claws. The room was bright, the light slipping through the slats of the softly tilted blinds. The bright would be gone soon. Thinning; it set shadows on my unmade bed, on the worn, slightly dusty paint-stained floor, on the paint lines of my bright blue desk, on the couch with the old purple checkered blanket. I was sitting on the soft blanket, with the deep ink stain from when I was seven and my cousin left a pen sitting on it, and the few soft little holes where it had caught on the springs of the couch. My feet were browned around the edges and slightly sparkly from the silver glitter I had poured over my floor a few weeks ago. My light blue shorts were sprinkled with drips of water that had come from my hair which was still damp, and gathered up against my neck, cold and uncomfortable.