I climbed the stool to reach the dead bulb’s glass

I climbed the stool to reach the dead bulb’s glass,

just three steps up to fix the yellowed light.

But halfway there I felt the moment pass

into a spinning, thick, and dizzy white.

The floor turned liquid, tilting like a boat,

the kitchen tiles a grey and rising sea.

A sudden, sour salt rose in my throat

while everything began to lean from me.

I stared up at the ceiling’s plaster swirl,

a drain that wanted all the air I breathe.

It’s strange how fast the edges of the world

can start to come unstitched and start to heave.