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The only fragments I can recall are disjointed and confused: skin, the laughter of children, tangled limbs. Vomit and blood in my throat. The sky dissolves in a blur.

I have never accepted change with any grace. Sometimes, I yearn for the safety of being confined, the weight of years finally thrust aside. Left here alone, in silence so thick I choke.

Nothing else worth repeating - empty room, days without food, months without words. A harsh white light that never turned off. A hole in the wall for air, a hole in the floor for shit. In time, I learned to give thanks for all of this. I went to sleep; someone else woke up.

The air that I breathe is clean. The sun on my skin is warm and kind. But when I cower and shrink from you like a child, when I claw and scratch at the walls like a dog, until I bleed, I'm where I belong.