There was a rat in my room.
It ate away at my shoes.
It kept me from going to places I choose because it was somewhere, just somewhere in my room.
I never saw it, it was a small bandit.
I just knew it was there, hiding in the corners.
It would steal my sleep.
I could hear it. Sometimes.
At night, it would squeak.
I sometimes wondered if it was trying to speak, but it mattered little to me.
The rat in my room was far from a friend.
I kept telling my parents to look for it. To get rid of it.
I wanted it to end.
They kept telling me it was not there.
The rat in my room did not exist.
I told them about my shoes.
I told them about the places I could no longer go to.
They showed me a pair and said: 'We see no damage here.'
There was a rat in my room. I know there was.
I heard it.