You could drown in a room. That old ziploc bag of pens, for example. Pens that smell and pens that highlight and pens stolen from that restaurant where tarted-up teenagers used to come to order drinks. Pens that produce ink sometimes, rarely, never. Pencils too, coloured ones worn down to the wood and who knows where the sharpener went. Stick your head in, put your nose against the cheap blue Bic, the kind you never see any more, the one with the bite marks. Try to breathe, drown.

Drown in the planter by the window, empty except for soil that nothing ever grew in. The reflection of headlights on its shell.

Drown in the dirt.

In baskets filled with boxes filled with crayons, glitter, fabric glue bought for a project and never used. In clipboards, those ones you bought to hold resumes, the kind that always bent the corners of the paper.

In tubs of halfway constructed Halloween costumes, drown in the moths.

In shoes that never fit, in clothes meant to be sold. In bottles of shampoo and hairspray used once and not loved, but saved just in case. In magazines from those years you told yourself you were trying not to be pretty. When you cut your hair and all those pictures, cut them out carefully as the magazines grew in piles of hope around the walls.

Drown in a house.