childhood bedroom

I’m sitting at my desk in my bedroom, windows open, moonlight pouring in.
Printed photos and polaroids of my highschool friends hang around me and it smells like a mixture of incense and victorias secret perfume.
My clothes are strewn about in messy piles across the floor and my shelves are full of books someone read lifetimes ago.
I’m sitting at my desk, something I (I?) have done maybe a billion times before and yet it feels new and I realize that this may be the first time I have been here.

This is not my room and this is not my desk.

I open all the drawers in the dresser, dig through the piles of laundry, and peek between every book on the shelf.
I scour the floor, and ransack the closet, and tear through every journal I can find .
I pin up clues on the walls like an old school detective: old text receipts, polaroids, and used- up sketchbook pages.
I go mad wondering who it was, who used to sit at this desk everyday and I wonder why I don’t feel like her anymore.
She has my name, and my hair, and my face and her imprint is in my bed.
But she is gone now.
She went missing when I got on that train and died when it arrived and I think it was me who killed her.