Beige is the itch inside my head The dreary, drab walls I stay locked in I’m a townhouse with a freshly painted facade, But moldy wallpaper and carpets that are soaked with the stench of cigarette smoke I’m trapped in this house Blinds nailed to the sills Doors latched by keys long lost Milk spoiled And the fridge smells stale I sit in musty rooms on crumbling couches as oblivious pedestrians pass by and say “What a lovely house! A sunny porch to sit on and cheerful mint green accents.” But inside my house paint peels like shagbark and dust collects like dew You knock at my door and I can’t let you in I rip out the knob and claw down the splintered wood I throw myself against the frame and try to tear out the hinges But the door doesn’t budge; Not even an inch. So I stay stuck inside my beige house Left to wonder if there is an out -Clara Principe