Leave a little light on
in the smallest room
so that I can find my way
through capillaries,
through the wisdom
of my undoing.
I grab a jacket
that is too small,
but the zipper closes me off
from truths I try
to protect myself from,
the wisdom of my undoing.
And through the corridor
I cannot pass,
because I am too large
and too proud and too much.
The light burns wildly
but it isn't blinding.
It is flickering in the past,
offering a code
with each movement.
"Stay there," it says.
"Stay."
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