I was in a room.
The room was where I’d lived my entire life.
It was filled with unlit candles, frozen wax mid-drip down their sides.
I tried feeling my way around, but I kept bumping my shins on unfamiliar objects.
People were yelling from various directions.
I was bruised.
My sense of hearing dulled.
I tried to obey.

I couldn’t pronounce my name.
I meant what I didn’t say.
I couldn’t say things in the normal way.
My tongue took on water and fishtailed out my hands.
My pockets full of keys, I sank to the carpet at the bottom.
I was unspeakable.
I tried to translate.
People were not interested in a story they’d heard before.

I escalated my intentions.
When I wrote that line the first time I typed “escape.”
I was in the escape room in which I’d lived my entire life.
The room was made of glass.
People yelled at me from the other side.
I saw their mouths moving.
What I learned from this experience I will take with me.
There is nothing you can substitute for sleep.