I learned early that doors have teeth.
Stand in the frame long enough and the room forgets you;
step through and the air remembers what it can take.
So I lingered, counting hinges, pretending it was choice.
People called it caution. It felt like drowning on dry floors.
They say loss instructs. I hear the sentence and taste chalk.
The lesson arrives as a cold bowl: eat, or be ungrateful.
I swallow what I can and call the ache “discipline.”
After, I wash the plate until the water clouds with nothing.
Some mornings I am a glass set too close to the table’s edge.
No hand pushes.
Still, the fall rehearses itself in my bones.
I smile, inventory checked, shelves aligned, voice measured.
Inside, the light flickers like a cheap promise.
No one complains.
The room prefers quiet failures.
I keep a ledger no one sees:
what I held, what slipped, what never learned my name.
Weak is a loud word for a private event.
It happens without spectacle: a seam loosens, a clock forgets.
I am not brave, I am continuous.
There is a difference.
There is a difference.
Night comes. I do not end.
Morning returns like a small invoice.
Morning returns like a small invoice.
I pay it. I go on.
If I don’t choose, I don’t lose.
that’s the myth I sleep beside.
But mornings keeps coming anyway:
hands steady, heart overcorrecting, smile within guidelines.
If there is a moral, it is plain:
not breaking is not healing.
But it is a kind of living.
A thin line held steady by a tired hand,
and the hand, somehow, still mine.
Follow on Instagram