Backroom

There is a version of me that still sits in that room.

I remember his loud nature coming into the house at 8 p.m. His footsteps climbing the stairs. His aggressive tone before he ever reached the room. The air changed before the room did. The smell of liquor arriving before language.

I became something paused, removed from time, separated from time itself. Time bent without asking and left gaps where I should have been.

I carry the wrong texture of myself, skin rewritten into a language I couldn’t speak. The words never came. Even now, I don’t know if they ever will.

Time moved on.

Some part of me didn’t,

Without a way to escape,

remaining in a place the moment forgot to release.