“The Quiet Room Inside Me”
There’s a room inside my head—
no windows, no doors, no end.
Just walls that breathe too close,
and shadows that pretend.
They whisper like they know me,
call me by my oldest name,
the one I buried years ago
beneath a softer shame.
The ceiling drips with memories,
thick and slow and black,
each drop a quiet echo
of something I can’t take back.
I tried to light a candle once—
it flickered, then it screamed,
the flame bent into fingers
that pointed where I dreamed.
And in the corner, something sits,
a version stitched of me,
smiling with my broken teeth,
saying, “This is who you’ll be.”
I asked it, “Can I leave this place?”
It laughed without a sound.
“You built the walls with every thought
you never spoke aloud.”
Now silence hums like static,
loud enough to bruise,
and every choice I never made
is one I still must choose.
If I could tear the room apart,
rip mind from flesh and bone—
I’d still find that empty space
was never not my own.
