“What am I doing here?” You say.
You find yourself in the back bedroom,
and can’t remember why.
If only passing through were so easy:
some doorways recede even as you approach;
some rooms drag along with you:
the blood, the screams, the disbelief
are invisible engines
unspeakable hammers that nail us in.
“What am I doing here?” You say.
You find yourself in the black blood room
and must remember why.
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