You've been so good to me, Queen of tragedies.
when there was only one closet to be hide in,
dizzy with the smell of soiled laundry.
and only one door that could be locked, in my entire universe,
hearing my own humming, echoing in the white space, between bathtub and the ceramic floor,
"So I can live on water alone for couple of days in here", I would think to myself childishly.
while you my Queen, were defending your forever lost youth, digging up dirt.
I could picture your every facial expression, moving around the room dramatically,
fragile and tired afterward, regaining your powers in the corner.
you owned the stage.
It never took a whole day for me to come out,
"Wait 30 minutes after hearing nothing but silence", I made that rule.
Wondering what to expect.
Once, you left me a burned doll, her clothes spotted with your cigarette,
that day my room was the chosen place.
I came out to watch you, I was drawn into it.
There I learned about self-pities, and rotten lucks.
Under layers of Dostoevsky's and Balzac's, there it was, a deformed superstition.
Full with fascination for my Queen, I refused to let her walk out,
for the price of thousand words and unworthy tears.
It wouldn't be long until the next Act.