She flings open the door to her one-roomed sanctuary
youth-filled face proves that 21 is but a fraction of a century
She shuts the door behind her
Taking in the welcoming air
Behind the door goes her color-striped umbrella
The bread she set down on the table’s center
With the scorching sun outside, her water bottle is parched
With her weary body arched
She tosses onto the counter the bread she will sleep on tonight
Her bed calls to her draped in shiny white
Inviting her weary soul
Fulfilling its grand role
She falls, lands on it much like an egg crashing onto a pillow
This bed is her noble hero
Sweat silently falls from her temple onto the pillowcase
The mattress sucks in her fatigue with unwavering grace
The red fear of failure lands on the white sheets
The bed is unbothered by the stain it meets
Pitch-black uncertainty seeps past the silk nylon accompanied by pall
What is the point of it all?
The satin sheets caress her now almost limp body
The day’s troubles have left her groggy
Through her skin and her clothes, her troubles osmose into the bed
Like water into the roots of a weeping willow tree
The vendor gave her two apples instead of three
The bad mark on the term test
Her heartbreak that won’t rest
Her stolen phone
Missing home
Her weakness
Loneliness
“Hold on tight” gently lulls around
As Khalid sings 21 in the background
21 minutes later
Sleep embraces her