Bad Room

Before, I was locked in a room with an angry snake, eager to pounce, my brain thumping a garbled racket, cut with static and dreamt of dousing myself with gasoline 

Kept myself balled up, small and noiseless, fingers circling fragile wrists, comfortable with the space I did not occupy, room for you and them and the snake seething in the corner and the others

Then was sick and itched to do something different but could not—the sadistic routine had woven itself tightly in my brain, code engrained, part girl, part gadget. I whispered: I am a tiny martyr. I am a quiet warrior. Hear my battlecry: I’m sorry.  

I felt my cells dying and I felt each one go and I mourned them

The sickness burned but knocking helped, softly at first, around the perimeter, heavy crack indicating dense solid and hollow thud meant drywall, forgiving

Am I bad, I asked and pressed my ear against the wall, knocked

The snake lashed out, fangs digging into flesh, crushing bone, kept asking. With each bite, a scar formed, hard like a nail until I was covered in it

With an armor of calluses, it could no longer hurt so it became bored and slept 

Feeling around the wall and pressing and knocking until I had memorized the soft parts which formed a picture of nothing but it was also everything and something I had already known but could now confirm

I kicked the the most delicate spot and the light I had not seen in decades poured in. There was nothing glorious outside like I had imagined but the peace was deafening and I became big, expanding in every direction towards the softness like dewdrops on a spiderweb at dawn, shuttling liquid golden light.