Off the Mat

Staring up at the ceiling, I refused to stay down. The surface beneath me felt soft, stitched in ridged patterns like an unfamiliar canvas. I clenched my right fist, testing the tension in my wrist, and forced my elbow to lever against the fabric. A small shift, but intentional. I dragged my knuckles along one of the stitched seams, feeling every thread push back against my skin. I am not pinned. I can move.