nat raum

i’m in your walls, dwelling with cobwebs. history dictates i will expire here, between two-by-fours and plaster, never again illuminated. i have subsisted so long on a back burner’s heat that i have grown accustomed to stasis, goosebumps. i once walked around in a kilt and stockings every winter—this is still a new depth of frigidity. here’s the thing: i have wanted to prove history wrong for years. even suspended in airless black chasm, i hold onto facsimiles of hope that when i reach the grave, i carry even a trace of love with me to whatever exists beyond.