I look around my room and see a metaphore of my life. The walls are yellow and peeling with age. Holes of various sizes are pierced and torn, covered by a stray picture or sticker. Clothes that I've worn countless times grow tired as the litter the floor. They smell of must and their wrinkles are proof of being shoved and crushed. The carpet was once white but is now brownish gray, speckled with remnants of gum from years past. Mold grows on the glass of my window. My mirror's frame has been torn from it on all sides but one. Smeared kiss prints made from lip gloss show in the light. The mirror itself shows me. I don't know whether I belong with my surroundings or not.