I measure the weight of my absence
in the fridge’s heavy, mechanical hum—
a witness finally allowed to speak
now that I refuse to be silenced.
I fold the blankets I once laid with care
into rectangles of revolt.
The fabric resists, stiff with the salt of tears
and the heat of arguments
shoved into my lungs like contraband.
The couch bears the dent of my diminishment.
Its velvet protests the space I now take,
but I rise.
Beneath me, the floorboards groan—
scandalized by the sudden audacity of my spine.
The table carries the ghosts of unfinished meals,
the silver flashing a jagged verdict:
A feast is not a home if it consumes the servant.
The lamp flickers—an impotent, shivering thing...
before it bows to the radiance of my reclamation!
I **** the oven of a desire that only ever cooked me alive.
I ****** the lavender from the sheets,
not quite as memory, but as a weapon.
Every step is a riot in wood and brass.
The hinges shriek, the handles claw,
the house begs for the ghost I used to be.
But I do not falter.
I am not walking out.
I am torching the blueprints that confined me.
I am flattening the walls that framed my silence.
I am stepping into a world that cannot cage
my breath, my body, or my tongue.
I am no longer a tenant of your approval.
I am the architect of my own insurgency.
I slam the door.
The frame quivers in my absence.
A dust mote shivers in the sunbeam—
the house remembers,
but I do not!
Jan 20
Jan 20, 2026 at 6:03 PM UTC
I measure the weight of my absence
in the fridge’s heavy, mechanical hum—
a witness finally allowed to speak
now that I refuse to be silenced.
I fold the blankets I once laid with care
into rectangles of revolt.
The fabric resists, stiff with the salt of tears
and the heat of arguments
shoved into my lungs like contraband.
The couch bears the dent of my diminishment.
Its velvet protests the space I now take,
but I rise.
Beneath me, the floorboards groan—
scandalized by the sudden audacity of my spine.
The table carries the ghosts of unfinished meals,
the silver flashing a jagged verdict:
A feast is not a home if it consumes the servant.
The lamp flickers—an impotent, shivering thing...
before it bows to the radiance of my reclamation!
I **** the oven of a desire that only ever cooked me alive.
I ****** the lavender from the sheets,
not quite as memory, but as a weapon.
Every step is a riot in wood and brass.
The hinges shriek, the handles claw,
the house begs for the ghost I used to be.
But I do not falter.
I am not walking out.
I am torching the blueprints that confined me.
I am flattening the walls that framed my silence.
I am stepping into a world that cannot cage
my breath, my body, or my tongue.
I am no longer a tenant of your approval.
I am the architect of my own insurgency.
I slam the door.
The frame quivers in my absence.
A dust mote shivers in the sunbeam—
the house remembers,
but I do not!
Time I stopped paying rent for a space that doesn't hold my weight...
