THE SILENT DOOR

In the marrow of my room, I carve a silence, thick as stone. The world outside hums— a vast engine of voices, each cog grinding names I’ve shed. I want no part of it. The door is bolted, not to keep them out, but to keep me in. The walls pulse with a dull decree: Stay. Sink. Disappear. A chair sits, rigid as a judge, and I obey its sentence. Once, I craved the clamor— hands to hold, words to weigh. Now they are insects, scurrying across a desk of endless forms. I stack papers, each a vow to forget the sun. The window is a liar, its light a clerk demanding answers. In seclusion, I am sovereign, ruling a kingdom of dust. The clock mutters, but I’ve torn its hands away. Time is a guest I no longer receive. Here, in the husk of myself, I am free— or perhaps I am the cage.