only when the lights are off | short poem
there were stars on the ceiling.
the kind you press with your thumbs.
plastic, mint-green, glowing
only if you remembered
to turn the lights off first.
i stood on my tiptoes to place them
then i’d lie there in the dark and wait
for them to fade.
the walls were pink once.
not soft, not blush — just pink.
someone else picked it.
i don’t remember who.
maybe i didn’t like it at first,
but i lived in it long enough
to pretend it was mine.
there’s probably still glitter
in the corners.
probably still a sticker that
won’t peel off
without leaving skin behind.
i kept a journal
with a heart-shaped lock
that didn’t work.
hid it in my panties drawer anyway.
talked to it like it could forgive me
for things i didn’t do
but still felt guilty about.
i wrote with a pen that
had a pom-pom at the end.
sometimes i kissed the paper
after signing my name.
my windowsill was lined with lip balms
that all smelled like candy.
chapsticks i bit the tops off.
scrunchies that stretched too thin.
a snow globe from a gas station,
always shaken, never watched.
a pencil sharpener shaped
like a cupcake.
notes from classmates,
folded like love letters
or paper wings too shy to fly.
on bad nights,
i’d hide under the desk
and pretend the stuffed animals
could hear me.
i gave them names.
placed the kindest ones close to the bed,
the braver ones near the door.
pretend the house didn’t listen
through the vents.
pretend i was smaller than the room.
sometimes i whispered into the floor
like it was a wishing well.
the door never locked right,
but i’d try anyway —
stacking books and shoes in front of it
like that could stop a voice,
a hand, a man,
a memory from coming in.
once, i drew eyes
on the bottom of the closet
so someone could keep watch
while i slept.
i never told anyone about them.
i thought if i did,
they’d blink.
i don’t live in that house anymore.
but i think
a part of me
never left that room.
i still dream
i’m brushing my hair
in front of the mirror
before school,
my knees tucked under the stool,
my pinky finger still stained with marker
from drawing hearts on math homework.
there’s a tiara hanging from the doorknob,
a cherry-scented eraser in my pocket,
a band-aid still stuck to my sock.
the air smelled like lotion and bubblegum,
like someone else had just left.
there’s a bobby pin in my mouth,
lip gloss i forgot to blend,
a pink stuffed bunny watching
quietly from the bed
wearing a friendship bracelet
around one ear.
sometimes i still dream
that the stars on the ceiling
have learned to glow on their own.
no light, no switch —
just me, and the dark,
and the cotton hush of everything
holding its breath.
the faint shimmer above,
flickering like it remembers
how i used to whisper goodnight.
and the promise
of something still burning
softly,
for me.