Romb 

There’s a room in my house

That everyone has an opinion about.

Some days, I’ll be sitting at home 

When a gaggle of people barge in, 

uninvited, 

to inspect the room.

They warn me

‘It’s no use sitting empty.’

‘Think of the potential.’

‘Be more grateful.’

‘Some people aren’t lucky enough to have a room like this.’ 

I’m sorry for them, 

of course, 

but why do they get to decide

What I do with my room in my house?

Daily, I’m interrogated

From every angle:

‘How many people have passed through here?’

How long did they stay?’

And then, squinting at me, with hushed voices:

‘Did they leave or did you evict them?’

They look at me like I’m a monster,

a landlord from hell 

to a room that’s always been vacant. 

‘This just won’t do.’ They chastise,

‘And who wants an old, used room anyway?’

Storming out in disgust, 

They don’t hear my sigh of relief.

As the years go by, 

I place a padlock and chain around the room

Only to have men in suits show up with 

Paper bolt cutters to tear it down.

Men, women and children saunter in

With buckets of paint,

ladders, hammers, and a measuring tape 

They legislate to redecorate before, 

In their words, it gets too late. 

They tell me I need a minimum of 3 previous occupants

And to marry a man who who’ll decide for me

Before they trust a silly little woman like me 

To place a lock on her own property 

Without my locks, 

I live in fear that one day I’ll wake up 

And find an unwanted guest in my spare room, 

A plague or pest, or a strange, dark mould will sneak in;

At first so subtle I don’t even notice it, 

But quickly and quietly it will spread through the rest of my home, 

Decaying and degrading as it goes.

The neighbours pop round and tut at me

As I’m furiously scrubbing the walls until I bleed 

To remind me that each life is precious

And that they’d kill for a spore or two of their own. 

They don’t realise that where they see pets and guests, 

I see only pain and pests so unwelcome, 

I’d rather burn my home to the ground than keep them there. 

A friend of mine, has a roommate, 

who keeps her up all night,

And makes a lot of noise, 

and leaves her stuff all over the house,

And she often asks me,

With bags under her eyes 

and pity on her face, 

and just a quiet hint of envy in her voice. 

‘Doesn’t it get quiet? 

Lonely? 

Sad.

Sure, you like the silence now,’ she warns,

‘But what about the future? You’ll change your mind’

I want to remind her that I didn’t comment 

when she painted her walls bright pink 

or spent 3 month’s wages on a new sofa 

or built 2 new extensions before she’d paid off the first. 

but I don’t

Because it’s still not my business. 

There’s a room in my house

And sometimes it feels like everyone’s voice is louder than mine.

But when I’m alone 

I can sit in that room, 

And enjoy it, 

Appreciate it, 

Really get to know it, 

I run my fingers along it’s smooth walls 

Lay on the thick, soft carpets, 

And stare up at the unblemished ceiling. 

I bask in the calm and the quiet 

and inhale the scent of freedom and home 

And the joy of being alone that is so uniquely me. 

And once I’ve reminded myself 

that empty does not mean it is 

without purpose,

without beauty, 

without joy,

empty is not lonely, 

or cold, 

or wasted potential, 

empty is exactly what I make of it:

My responsibility, my gift and my burden,

And I won’t bend or break or lean or fall 

I’ll maintain my right to close the door 

because I can

I close the door because there’s a room in my house

And it’s all mine.