“You can leave,” they tell me, opening the door.
I freeze, asking what I’d be leaving for.
“For better,” they say, “you do not belong.”
I whisper, “tell me then—did I do something wrong?”
“No,” they reply, “but you’re not meant to remain.”
My reflection in the doorway twists into fear and shame.
“Please,” I beg, “I can change, I can learn, I can stay.”
“You’re not made for this place—there is no other way.”
My feet turn to concrete, rooted deep in the ground,
Though the doorway keeps calling, its silence too loud.
“I won’t go,” I insist, “you can’t make me grieve.”
“You shouldn’t be here—that’s reason enough to leave.”
The door gapes open, the unknown staring back,
I shrink in the corner, afraid of attack.
The watchers stand still, unwilling to intervene,
While I fold myself smaller, hoping not to be seen.
