Tatered papers of loose leaf chaos fill the binder. A broken dictionary that makes it impossible to find the right words sits on my desk.
My life is a cluttered yet organized room that looks like it belongs to a child, teenager, and an elderly person all at the same time. With watercolor paintings of dragons, a map of all the places I need to be, and drawings, letters, songs, hanging on the walls. Beneath it all, the bed. And beneath the bed the place where I hide all of my treasures.
Hushed whispers recite lines from this place. Sometimes in my mind & other times aloud. Filling the empty room with music where silence should be.
My binder screams to be heard, but is never listened to.