Blink twice
or don’t.
They called it laziness—
the knees locked
under the metal desk,
the body looking too still
to be drowning.
By the time they noticed,
the hand
had already risen
before the command,
asking permission
for the silence
that was already there.
May 23
May 23, 2026 at 10:21 PM UTC
At the end of a hallway
that smells of burnt wires—
a door.
Unlabeled.
Not waiting.
Just there.
Light spills under it,
a bulb meant for another room.
The sound arrives
frayed.
In the wall,
a rib adjusts.
Just the body
tightening
around the sound.
You were a child.
Then hands.
Then someone who touched
every doorknob
before lying down.
Glass breaks
somewhere else in the house.
You wait
to see
if it was yours.
The lock resists,
but only as performance.
Behind it:
the refrigerator hums.
A screen warms.
A body—
not yours—
turns in sleep,
breathes
like it still doesn’t know
someone is listening.
Your tongue presses
to the roof
of your mouth.
You stay.
Nothing stirs.
Feb 4
Feb 4, 2026 at 12:03 PM UTC
At home,
the answers waited—
stacked,
like neatly folded futures.
"You’ll wear this one next,"
they said.
But meant:
"your size is not up for debate."
And no one asked
what else fit.
Desire
measured out in millimeters—
You learned:
speak a little,
stay quiet longer.
They called it realism.
You knew it as
training.
But even trained,
something keeps its teeth.
A passport:
not a door,
a mirror held up too long.
You opened it
to check
whether the face inside
was still waiting
to be told
it could begin.
There were brochures.
Not routes—
instructions.
Margins you weren’t meant
to step outside of.
You folded them
until the creases
no longer matched
any geography you knew.
What stayed—
barely—
was the needing, without a name.
You left.
Not to be loud.
Not even to win.
You left
the way pressure leaves bone:
no spectacle,
no proof—
only a change
you feel
years later
when you move.
They asked:
"what did you find?"
You said:
"fine."
A word light enough
to pass inspection.
Heavy enough
to keep them
out of the room
where it mattered.
Now the mirror stays turned.
Not for shame.
For care.
Like something once sharp
wrapped
in what you no longer call
by name—
because naming
invites hands.
Some dreams—
you don’t follow them.
You carry them
sharp-side inward,
where they teach the body
how much weight
can be borne
without bleeding.
Not lost in the wanting.
Not broken by rule.
You keep what is yours
by
not
letting
them
name
it.
Jan 21
Jan 21, 2026 at 3:09 AM UTC
At home,
the answers waited—
stacked,
like neatly folded futures.
"You’ll wear this one next,"
they said.
But meant:
"your size is not up for debate."
And no one asked
what else fit.
Desire
measured out in millimeters—
You learned:
speak a little,
stay quiet longer.
They called it realism.
You knew it as
training.
But even trained,
something keeps its teeth.
A passport:
not a door,
a mirror held up too long.
You opened it
to check
whether the face inside
was still waiting
to be told
it could begin.
There were brochures.
Not routes—
instructions.
Margins you weren’t meant
to step outside of.
You folded them
until the creases
no longer matched
any geography you knew.
What stayed—
barely—
was the needing, without a name.
You left.
Not to be loud.
Not even to win.
You left
the way pressure leaves bone:
no spectacle,
no proof—
only a change
you feel
years later
when you move.
They asked:
"what did you find?"
You said:
"fine."
A word light enough
to pass inspection.
Heavy enough
to keep them
out of the room
where it mattered.
Now the mirror stays turned.
Not for shame.
For care.
Like something once sharp
wrapped
in what you no longer call
by name—
because naming
invites hands.
Some dreams—
you don’t follow them.
You carry them
sharp-side inward,
where they teach the body
how much weight
can be borne
without bleeding.
Not lost in the wanting.
Not broken by rule.
You keep what is yours
by
not
letting
them
name
it.
Jan 21
Jan 21, 2026 at 3:08 AM UTC
You may miss the flicker
in the hum of a stairwell bulb—
or beneath the rug
in your childhood kitchen,
where a spoon once fell
and you never picked it up.
It might linger in trees—
murmuring to the little girl you were,
draped in a gown of pretend constellations,
drifting loose and glowing.
Or in the grass of afternoons,
bent beneath your heel, trembling.
But when it comes,
it doesn't come to declare.
It shows up
in the pause before your name is called,
in the moment a dish cools
and no one says a word.
It was never gone.
Just sitting there,
patient
as the wind between buildings,
waiting for you
to notice it.
Jan 18
Jan 18, 2026 at 2:22 PM UTC
Ana smears toothpaste across the wrong side of the brush.
It’s 6:12 a.m.
The coffee machine coughs
like it’s learned the sound from the bus
She gulps the brew—burns her lip—
covers clean teeth with the illusion of being awake.
The window's cracked.
Cold air runs through the loose pane,
rubs its fingers on the back of her neck.
Outside, she fumbles her keys,
misses the zipper on her bag—again.
The driver doesn’t look up.
She taps her card twice,
no beep. Just her reflection
in the greasy plastic divider.
BBC news plays low:
“More layoffs expected…”
She opens her book.
It's page 82. The war hasn’t started yet.
The breeze still sneaks in through the vents.
But in the story,
the sky is orange
and work doesn't exist.
Jan 16
Jan 16, 2026 at 4:14 AM UTC