Dead Room

The outlet in the bedroom doesn't work anymore.

Or it never did.

I can't remember.

I've been sleeping on the couch for two weeks.

The indent of my body is permanent.

A ghost print.

The charging cable lives here now too.

I wrap it around itself so many times

it's starting to forget its own shape.

I could go in the bedroom.

Could try another outlet.

Could admit that I've abandoned an entire room

because one thing stopped working.

Instead I move the cable from room to room.

From outlet to outlet.

Like it's alive.

Like it matters where I plug it in

as long as it charges.

The couch is ruined.

My body has claimed it.

The fabric smells like me—

like someone who's been here too long.

Sometimes I stand in the doorway

and look at the dark socket.

Just look at it.

Like if I stare long enough

it might tell me why I can't go back in there.

Why I can't sleep where I'm supposed to.

Why I've decided a dead outlet

is enough reason to abandon everything.