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The Room Whispers
Things,
Strewn across the hardwood floor,
They say,
They say she used to be a messy girl.
The desk,
Covered with artwork,
It says,
It says she used to be an artistic girl.
The drawers,
Lifting useless papers,
They say,
They say she used to be a sentimental girl.
The stuffed animals,
In the corner of a closet,
They say,
They say she grew up.
But the room,
Dusty and gone,
The room whispers that it no longer knows
Who she is.
And the girl?
The girl says-
Admits that-
Maybe she doesn’t, either.

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