I live inside a mind
that won’t unlock its own doors.
Outside, the future moves—
bright, loud, indifferent—
a street I can see through the windows
but can’t make myself walk down.
I press my hands to the glass,
feel the warmth of tomorrow on the other side,
but my feet are welded to the floor
of yesterday.
People say “just move on”
like it’s a hallway
and not a labyrinth.
Like the past is a place you visit
rather than a place that builds a house
inside your chest
and chains you to the furniture.
I can’t leave
because something happened here
and I don’t understand it yet.
I won’t
because something broke
and I refuse to step over the pieces
without knowing
why they were sharp enough
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to cut me.
Memory is a stubborn beast—
it circles,
it returns,
it sits on my chest at night
like it owns the air in my lungs.
I try to make sense of it,
trace the shape of every fracture,
turn moments over in my hands
until they crumble.
But understanding doesn’t come.
It never does.
It hides in the corners,
just out of reach,
a ghost refusing to speak
but refusing to leave.
So I stay.
Not because I want to,
but because part of me believes
that if I can decode the damage,
I can undo it.
That clarity is a key
and healing is a door
I just haven’t found the hinges for.
The future waits—
impatient, arms crossed,
tapping its foot in the doorway—
but I’m still here,
in this room of echoes and unanswered questions,
searching through the ruins
for a truth
that doesn’t want to be known.
Maybe one day
I’ll step outside.
Maybe I’ll meet the sun again
and remember how to walk forward.
But not today.
Not yet.
First, I have to understand
what happened in this place
that stole the part of me
that used to move.
And until I find it—
until I name it—
I stay.
Not frozen.
Just… unresolved.
