Room

She did not know
to engage in such things
would leave everything familiar flailing,
everything worthy slapping itself 
against stucco walls 
and memories.
How could she have?
Rooms like these 
stitch their own lips shut,
hold their beaten secrets close,
squeeze bits of breath 
and laughable hope
into air packed tight with pain.
No, this is no room for innocence.
This is no room for love.
This is a room for splintering.
If she had only known.

-Katherine Gotthardt