There’s a space I remember,
between what I saw and what I was told.
A room with no doors,
only windows I couldn’t open.
I learned to speak in half-truths,
to nod when I didn’t understand,
to carry the weight of voices
that weren’t mine.
Time passed like dust in sunlight—
soft, blinding, impossible to hold.
And yet I moved through it,
learning that even when the air is heavy,
a breath is still a victory.
Somewhere in that room,
I left pieces of myself,
tiny fragments of courage
waiting to be found again.
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 3:21 PM UTC
There’s a space I remember,
between what I saw and what I was told.
A room with no doors,
only windows I couldn’t open.
I learned to speak in half-truths,
to nod when I didn’t understand,
to carry the weight of voices
that weren’t mine.
Time passed like dust in sunlight—
soft, blinding, impossible to hold.
And yet I moved through it,
learning that even when the air is heavy,
a breath is still a victory.
Somewhere in that room,
I left pieces of myself,
tiny fragments of courage
waiting to be found again.
Some rooms we live in are invisible to others. We carry the weight of what we’re told, what we see, and what we must hide. Yet every shadow, every silence, is part of our growth. The universe teaches balance—what feels heavy now, shapes the strength and perspective we carry forward.
