Our last night together, little room. You’ve treated me well, better than most. You’ve seen too much, heard too many secrets. The sunlight that streamed through your giant windows made me scream into my pillow most mornings. Your hardwood floor adopted my stray hairs without hesitation. It also swallowed all my scrunchies. The lock on your door protected me from the alpha males next door. And the hinges always worked overtime. Your eggshell walls collided with the back of my head one too many times. Your desk is forever stained by my pink thermos, forever moldy from my tears. Your corners were littered with yerba. Your mirror nearly shattered over a dozen times. Your nightstand kept the snacks that kept me company on bad nights. Your drawers held clothes that I never had the energy to style. Your fridge was usually empty except for an unfinished can of Coke. No one has known me as much as you have. But now, I join the list of your past inhabitants. I imagine that on that list is a Leonard from 1935 who sang in the choir and wrote letters to his mother every Saturday. And there must be a Carrie from 1969, your first woman and the one who wanted to study Mathematics but instead chose English. I’ll also be joining Lupita from 2007 who had solo dance parties and drank more coffee than water. They’ve all left a mark even if I haven’t found it. Your next occupant won’t know me or care to know me but my fingerprints will still dot your walls, my crumbs will still fill your cracks, and my scent will still linger in your mattress. I’ll make sure to etch my initials on your eggshell wall so that you never forget me, just as I’ll never forget you.
Martina Amate Perez is a graduating senior in Davenport College.