Two apples and three oranges
sit on a plate near my foot.
This pentagram is the only sign of life
in this room,
apart from me, of course.

I have seen enough of this room,
I have seen enough of only this room
to have a 3-dimensional map of it in my head –
the tubelight above the door,
an LED bulb on the otherwise empty wall,
an empty socket above my bed,
and the recess in the wall just wide enough
to keep the brown paper bag
stocked with pills and vitamins.

On a narrow stool,
lies a coffee mug,
a souvenir I had collected
from an Arctic town that prides itself
as the official home of Santa Claus.

The couch,
which I have rarely sat on,
has become a substitute
for holding books and a laptop,
the few things that have kept me tethered
to the blackbox of a room.

It’s the eighth day counting
in this cocoon.
I don’t care if I sprout wings in the next two.

I only want to feel a different floor under my feet.


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