Third place, Poetry: 'Childhood Bedroom'

I love the way you sit there

on my bed,

stuffed monkey,

untouched by teenage perils

and inevitable growing pains.

I still hold you at night,

dear Blankie,

because I'm afraid that if I let go

you'll vanish like most of the items

from my glory days.

How could I forget

my four confined cubbies, too?

You've been holding onto my

loose change and construction paper stories

since I was five.

And the stickers I irrationally placed onto

my drawers,

now chipped and worn away,

thank you for bearing with my

horse-fanatic stage as well as my completely

disorganized and random placement.

I'm reminded of the time my sister threw a toy truck

onto your surface,

cracked mirror,

because your zigzagged scar hasn't faded

and I doubt it ever will.

They say it's bad luck,

a fractured mirror,

but I believe quite the opposite.

The romantic glow of the dipping sun

still filters into this childhood bedroom

every evening,

kissing my grainy floor,

my white window frames,

my sisters' faces.

There's still the remainder of lime paint

on the left corner above the door-

that splintered, aged door-

even though the walls

smile snow gray now.

And a hint of yellow,

still etched into the door frame near

the replaced light switch,

that whispers,

This room was once a dreamland.

A dreamland indeed,

washed away by the preordained,

Shakespearean tragedy of

growing up.