Another day comes and goes at the desk, I do not leave the room, do not see the world. My body contracts into itself, is made shorter by the oppression of a sweatshop, is made compact by compression. My neck creaks. I take a personality test that tells me I was broken early and am a jagged patchwork of a person, but it says it in an empathetic tone. I do not fault it for my own makeshift casts and splints. No wonder it hurts so to move through this world.
For a brief moment, I stumble, get distracted by the one thousand bees stinging my insides, by the jellyfish tentacles wrapped around my throat. Midtown grows dark outside my window, a rainstorm drenches the city, the Thanksgiving travelers. I know I will be able to breathe, soon, will be able to step blinking into the light again, know I have made myself free.
I am the adult in the room now.
I'm in charge of keeping the time.
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