I used to be trapped
in this little room.
There was no lock
chaining us to the bedpost;
just this surreal numbness
that prevented us from
ever getting too far
away.

You could open the door
and take a step out,
only to find yourself
entering the same room
in which you’d just
exited.

It was madness.
The walls were my enemy.
They planned to **** me.
I could hear them plotting
behind my back, as they
closed in on my deepest fears.
I knew I had to escape
before the cracks
on the ceiling
ate me alive.

On more than one occasion
I recall sitting out
on the windowsill
with the night air
taunting me to join it.
So tired, yet there was
never any sleep,
and when there was,
the dreams were never good.
And I know now, sitting here,
I would have joined the moon’s
convincing breeze
without hesitation,
if only our room hadn’t
been on the second floor
where I would have only
broken a leg, and felt
more pain.

But before we could relocate
to a higher surface,
I at last found my own
little light,

and you know, I guess that’s
pretty all right.