Ashes and butts of cigarettes on a nearly filled ashtray.
Cracked peach blank walls.
Neatly fixed bed with books by its side.
Scratch papers of poetry.
Scratch papers of women’s number.
Dysfunctional extension phone.
Fitness magazines underneath a side table.
Smut magazines in a hidden old bag.
Metal plates for my dumbbells.
Sands from Boracay in a small pot.
Broken alarm clock.
Unfinished matte floor in gray.
Four pin lights where only one works.
Edgar Allan Poe, Anne Rice at shelves
Unnamed CDs stored in a box
An old black radio by the bedside.
An electric fan given by an ex
(She reminded me once she wants to have it back)
Different bags hanged on an unused drawing table
An old used KFC bucket used as a bin.
It’s my lair when I’m proud.
It’s a dungeon when I’m in a cloud.
A place you don’t want to be found.
If I die I won’t make one sound.