The Pink Room

In the pink room there are two beds.
I used to think they were side by side,
but they aren't.
One is nailed to the ceiling,
the other nailed to the floor.
All the blankets are stuffed into the crack
under the door as if someone had forgotten.
Forgotten to remove them after smoking
or after a fight where the screams
and the bruises
were muffled.
The pink room used to have paintings
but they have since been removed and instead
there is an imprint of their rectangular bodies.
Whether from the light or from the smoke,
I couldn't tell you.
But I can tell you the name of the child
who, upon realizing the uselessness
of discolored patches of pink wall,
wielded a fine tipped brush
and painted those ghosts of frames into windows.
One shows a bright, bright day.
The other a dark and nearly starless night.

I hoped maybe the occupants of the opposing beds
having screamed all the world to each other
would stop fighting and become fascinated with his masterpiece,
but now they just fight over whether it is day
or night.