my room

my room smells of tequila and broken dreams, of unshared thoughts of frustration unable to make it through these screechy screen door teeth. There is catalogue of my failures stacked on the bookshelf over the desk, i read them every night before bed to remind myself that there is knowledge buried somewhere in these tomes. There is a picture of you hidden on my breath, dissatisfaction breathed out intangibly in the heat of a cool drink between four white walls without windows, without doors, without hope. There is a messy bed, which is more of an unmarked grave where i rest unbeknownst to the world dreaming of something to die for, for everything we live for is so common place that it has washed the taste of life from or mouths. There is a mirror that doesn't reflect, it just shows me a strangers face haggard with a long beard and red sleepless eye as i walk by, and every day we meet eye to eye and we ask each other; is it you or is it me who did this?