If walls could talk

When she first moved in I was pink. I was a playful shade of pink that was marked with the pattern of sponge pores. An outdated green carpet layed on the floor she walked on; limiting her to my small space. Everynight she fell asleep covered by a floral quilt to keep her warm. A nightstand promptly stood to the left of her bed, close enough to her so her fingertips could sweep the alarmclock that she barely ever used. Her daddy woke her up every morning. Even though he would get frustrated trying to pull her out of bed, he unfailingly woke her, everyday. The alarm clock sat on a white lacy cloth-that was her mother trying to dress up the cheap nightstand. Her most prized beanie baby bear watched over her day in and day out as he lived on the nightstand too. A dark wooden dresser took up most of the room. The dresser used to belong to the mother of her best friend but now was squeezed into the grove of the small room. I would watch her sit on top of that dresser, scribbling lyrics of avril lavigne and hilary duff in washable marker all over the mirror. A first communion plaque and a little house of wobbles lived on opposite selves the dresser supported. Sleepovers and make-up parties were held weekend after weekend and as the days went by I slowly began to change.