There’s a room at the back of the heart

There’s a room at the back of the heart, I tend to forget about it. Someone points to it. At the locked door, white paint chipping away. Once they leave, I break the lock.

Water flows, not sure from where, it reaches my chin now, there’s boxes laying on the tiles below me, journals and boxes slip out, plants creep through ceiling corners: sunflowers, tulips, mint leaves, their stems swirl in hopes to catch the last few sunrays before we are submerged. Once we are, it doesn’t hurt for long, I get accustomed to not breathing, my skirt swells around me, my blouse sticks to my skin.

I can leave, return to the room later, maybe never.

But not yet.

Five more minutes, let me remember, even if my lips are turning blue.