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Sometimes I wonder what they must think of me
When their eyes happen to wander toward my
Room from across the way.
The sills are never clean
And the curtains are always closed.
The windows are never open except for those
Random times
At night.
I keep my head down when I walk the halls.
I greet nobody unless they greet me first.
I have no visitors and I almost never leave.
And sometimes, I appear to have disappeared
For an entire week.
Until
There’s a flicker of the curtains
And I wonder –
Do they think that I’m in here
Trying to sneak a peek?
Are they aware that I just flipped my
Giant mattress over and the resultant
Dull thud, brought with it, a puff of fast-moving air?
Are they aware
That I didn’t notice the curtains tremble
And that I changed the bedding and proceeded to sleep?
Again.
After I woke up with an aching back
From having spent hours failing to rise from there…
I wonder
What stories they create when they see her.
Me.
The occupant of that flat with
The apparent quiet demeanor.
Do they wonder
Why I never take clothes to the washing line
And why I persist in wearing these dirty
Converse of mine.
I wonder if they pass my room
Hoping to hear sounds of life
And I wonder if they wonder
Why the scent of floor polish – scent of pine –
Never escapes the tiny gap under the front door –
Do they wonder if I ever clean house at all?
I wonder if they wonder if I’m some kind
Of forgotten child
With a sanitized backstory
Like some kind of super-spy –
I wonder if they wonder at all about me
That girl with the revolving door of neighbors
Yet
She herself
Never leaves…

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