(no,) it's not horror by convention.
the walls are bare of bugs
(and indeed there are walls. bugs too, though not the sort to pester)
i've not been abruptly taken or shaken or prodded by torturous instruments of men or the mind.
for garish light i am able to adjust (though i'd prefer it dim)
i make no note of odor or obtrusive presence,
and so it is in my familiar crevice.

where joints come painlessly unhinged
(connected still by blood and tissue)
like the child's game with mismatched shapes
(this square simply won't fit in this tube)
(limbs irrevocably misaligned)
and there i'll float, when i've drifted
to the depths of a space that can't be removed
(aware and unable)