No one told me you could be forgotten
by your cousins playing hide and seek.
No one told me the light in the fridge goes out
when you climb inside and close the door.
No one told me how the grate on the shelf above
presses into the ridges of your spine, compressing you
and how your legs folded underneath your torso
fall asleep, going numb as the chill sets in.
No one ever tells you the inside of refrigerators
smell like kitchen cleaner spray, arm & hammer powder
and salad greens wilting in plastic bags, or that
your grandmother’s homemade yogurt tempts from the top shelf.
No one ever tells you how impatient you grow and how your breath slows as you breathe the little oxygen you allowed inside with you.
No one tells you how light your head feels, how loud your blood thunders, how desperate your heart screams, louder than the muted world outside.
No one tells you the door suctions shut and you might be folded so small you don’t have the space to push yourself out.
No one tells you that you’ll have to thrash, pound, and flail against the plastic walls until there’s a burst of warm outside air––
No one tells you you’ll roll out gasping, cramped and claustrophobic, victory chilled into your bones when your cousins ask “Where were you?”
Source: Shunnarah, M (2022). Hide and Seek. Electric Literature, 232 (8 August 2022). Retrieved 9 August 2022 from https://electricliterature.
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