Like flesh to bone, these things belong to this room. Mapping their way into its structure, they contribute to the strength of the supporting walls. Like a wave of fresh cold salty surf, anxiety, you descend upon me. Seeping into my veins, as I peel posters like flakes of skin off the walls and into cardboard tubes, I can feel the panic threading through my system. Seizing the ends of my nerves, it twists my sensory perception into a convoluted cave of despair. These things were not made for cardboard cottages, but to be kept in their place. Sucking all sensibility out of my body, I am left clawing for solidarity. My stomach swaddled in sickness, I can feel the fingers of doubt feeling their way up my spine, touching and twitching my muscles into knots as they go. Wrapping things in bubble wrap and tissue paper, I am suffocated. Existence should not be placed in packages. Thud, crush and crack is the sound of my heart beating in the tightening cage. As ribs reject the feel of skin hanging between the marrow made bars they bend themselves in, and I am left with a feeling of fucking nothing. Home is where the heart is, but my heart is not wrapped, cello taped and placed in a brown flimsy box. Desperation bites down on the last piece of hope and clarity that I have, and spits the remnants at my feet. Digging nails into the paling hollowing skin, I try to find a pain to detract from this despair. Nakedity is natural, but this room was not made to stare blank. Hair pulling, nail biting, fists clenching, feet running. I am caught in this lifeless unyielding grip, as you anxiety, dangle my sanity like a puppet on a string and play out your masochistic desires with my emotions. This room was once home, safety, stability. Now it is empty and alone. I can see the white light of control waiting for me to take hold. But with legs tucked in, head bowed, and arms wrapped tight, all I can do is hold my body and wish for the floor to end my fall.