I think that if you were to crack my ribs
If you were to peel back my skin and cleave apart the muscle and cartilage and bone
Let me bleed as you dig your fingers into the cavity of my chest, clutch my heart, and pull,
If you were to take it and cut it into a million tiny pieces,
You would find a little red door
With an old brass handle.
The door would open to a room the color of merlot wine
With cherry hardwood floors.
It has yellow paper stars on the rich walls
And glossy guitars
And vinyl records mounted nearby.
It has green velvet pillows and string lights,
A window that always looks out into a clear, starry sky.
And in one corner, maybe a lamp-
A tall one, freestanding, with a warm yellow light bulb
And a lace lampshade that casts swirling patterns all over the walls and ceiling.
The red room is everything good, everything pure lives in the red room
Which is why I may never enter
I can only peek through the keyhole.