The Missing Room

I'm writing because I cannot leave.

The front door opens—I've tried—
but when I step through I wake
in the cellar, neck stiff, knees bruised,
throat raw like I've been screaming
though I can't recall the sound.

A room should sit
between the kitchen and the hall.
I know where it belongs. I feel
the space where it isn't, the gap
my body strains to fill.

Stairs spiral up. I've counted:
thirteen steps. At the top
I'm in the cellar again,
wrists scraped, fingers numb.

I don't know how long
I've been climbing.

No windows rattle. No pipes
groan. The silence isn't peaceful—
it's alert.

Clothes cling, damp.
There's no tap, no sink, no rain.
My shoes are caked with dirt
from a yard I've never seen.

I'm writing again.
(I think I've done this before.)
I can't hear the scratch of it.
Can't feel the paper. The ink just
appears, and it looks older
than the hand that's moving it.

If you find this:
I tried the door.
I'm in the cellar.
I'll try again.

I have to try again.