i stepped on tacks for two years in my teens 
because the thought of excavating my bedroom floor 
seemed harder than the occasional surprise 
stabbing on the soles of my feet 

that’s a metaphor
               i guess
like writing on my walls
or not at all
you see writing on the walls was maybe
the most literal thing i did back then

“go then there are other worlds than these”  
in black paint on blue 
stephen king’s best sentence watching over me
and promising escape to anywhere 
to the college i never went to 
but whose taped-up brochures 
made a collage of hope 

what a mess! 

when i did clean
              eventually
it was big black bags 
of papers and stuffed toys 
a life in trash
and the trash can fire 
             (ok it wasn’t a trash can
              forgive me
              it was a popcorn tin
              legolas’s perfect face 
              ​melting inwards) 
of the postcards my dad sent me

anyway 

i thought that kind of destruction was what you did
when you really meant something
but the smoke alarm went off at 2am
and i didn’t mean for that

don’t worry 
it’s all a long time past
the room is spite green now
or not spite 
i don’t know 

do i have regrets? 
i guess
but like that room 
i don’t think they’re mine anymore

---

alis hamilton is a poet, essayist and creator of multimedia zines. Their focus is on the ambivalence and confusion of gender, sexuality, and ideas of self. Their work has been featured in Shakespeare and Punk, Wrongdoing Mag, and High Shelf Press.

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header image: life in color via Pexels