I don't remember who told me about this place
but the old wooden stairs terrify me
as I climb to The Upper Room, notebook in hand.
The door reads, 'enter with a worshipful heart' and
I'm thinking to myself, 'how about a broken heart instead?'
I throw my notebook to the floorboards and look around.
There's a whole lot of uselessness up here.
Ugly and tarnished Christmas decorations,
stacks of crystal bowls that don't look in their place,
brightly woven baskets and strings of beads,
wall mirrors and plastic stage props.
There's no lightswitch for that lonely bulb on the ceiling,
just that wide, dirty window staring at me.
So I sit down in the dust and cobwebs.
I am completely alone, as requested,
save for the sunlight reaching weakly
through the October sky, the wet evergreens.
I take my gloves off and start to write.
It's really cold, but I'm starting to stop caring.
I'm starting to go numb in odd places.
No one bothers me. I keep waiting for someone
to come up and ask me why I asked to be alone,
but the only people who venture up the stairs
are the ones who have nothing better to do
than explore a building with only four rooms.
And I think to myself, "I could die in here."
I could die in here. No one would know.
They'd find me before I froze to death, but
what if that white spider poisoned me,
or what if I tripped and fell onto all those
crystal bowls. I could bleed to death.
They wouldn't find me until after dinner,
when whoever it was that led me up here
remembered that I'd asked to be alone.
But I don't want to die in here.
You would never find out.
No one knows you, they wouldn't tell you.
My silence would be your only sign.
So I put my gloves on. I close my notebook.
And I climb back down those horrible stairs,
with now only one thing on my mind,
I hate that the only thing keeping me alive in that room
was not having you know if I was dead.