There are scribbles on the walls
that I did not leave; I arrived
here with no name, and not
a penny in my pocket.

But the woman at the door
looked friendly and that
was all I needed.

There were
creases in her face
that reminded me
of the folds in my
elder sister's belly.

I used to lay
my head there
when the troubles
of living outweighed
the troubles of thinking.

Now that I am here
I know not what else to do.

The sun is a bright
flashing reminder
of how sick I am, and
how much sicker I
am yet to become.

The clouds are as
futile as my memories
of childhood; everyone
I ever loved is a lonely
stone on the ocean floor.

I do my best to make sense
of the scribbles; I trace over
the etched markings with
the two good fingers of
my right hand.

I don't stop until my eyes
open and the fog clears;

I see a path the creatures
before me have taken; a path
that resembles the wires
hidden in vessels
between the arm and the hand.

A main artery.

The one I should have taken
long ago.

If this is complete,
utter darkness, then
finally, I am safe;

free from
courage and will.

There is a knock at my door
that suddenly gets louder and louder
until I become one
with the walls, and no longer
hear them.

It didn't take long to find
a place I could call home.

It was the searching that was torture.