The Childhood Room You Can Never Go Back To
The Girl Who Outgrew Her Ceiling Stars
I'm the room where your small self still lives.
I am the hush between the hours, the weight of memory in the quiet corners of your mind. I smell like lavender, dust, and the soft decay of time. I am not haunted — I am the haunting. I keep your childhood safe, even though you can never quite fit inside me anymore.
What I'm Into: the scent of old paperbacks, ceiling stars that never shine, faded band tees, still afternoon light, quilts that hold their shape
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