for Intergalactic Trans Celebrity Juliet Mylan

It’s a room with dark wood walls, and a floor covered in well-worn rugs.
In the corner, a dimly lit Christmas tree pours red and green over someone’s workboots.
You notice the air has a musty wetness, like lots of old rooms in old houses.
Like your grandparents’ house.
Yes, it smells distinctly like your grandparents’ house.
Like cool Oregon air and acres of grassland baking in the summer sun and cows.

The couch – you must have missed it before – sits in the middle of the room.
The graying leather fades along creases, and years-stained whiteness pools on the left cushion.
That was your spot, when you and your brother played…
Oh, you forget the name, now…
How long has it been since you’ve seen him?

You forget…
How did you get here?
You don’t remember coming into this house. You don’t know if this room is even in a house.
How did you get here?
The cold open air of the outside feels a thousand miles away. You hear a coyote howl
somewhere in the distance.
How did you get here?
The television in the corner blinks on. An old CRT. It’s just static.
How did you get here?

It doesn’t matter.
The door is unlocked, there, behind you.
It’s ajar, but you can’t quite see through to the other side.
You can leave whenever you want.

Do you?