Uninvited Visitors

Knock Knock. Who’s there? 

The pain didn’t knock when it arrived.

It slipped in— 

quiet as breath, 

heavy as rain on a roof I never fixed. 

It wore your voice. 

It sounded like the way you said my name

when you were tired 

but still trying. 

I didn’t invite it in. 

But there it was— 

sitting on my chest in the morning, 

clinging to my sleeve by afternoon. 

Knock knock. 

Who’s there? 

I ask, half-joking, 

when a song on the radio makes my eyes sting,

or when I find your handwriting 

on the back of a forgotten envelope. 

Sometimes it’s you. 

Sometimes it’s just the idea of you. 

Either way, 

it still pulls the air from the room. 

I pretend I’ve moved on. 

But healing isn’t a straight road— 

it’s a hallway of half-closed doors 

and rooms I’m not ready to enter. 

Still, I keep walking. 

I water the plants. 

I answer messages. 

I smile at the right moments 

and laugh when it doesn’t hurt too much. 

Some days, I almost feel whole. 

And then— 

Knock knock. 

Who’s there?

An old memory, 

a scent, 

a joke we never finished. 

I open the door slowly now.

I don’t brace myself as hard.

it still visits, 

but it doesn’t stay for dinner. 

And the quiet part? 

It doesn’t knock. 

It waits until I notice— 

the sunlight catching dust in the air,

my own breath, 

steady and unafraid. 

Knock knock. 

Who’s there? 

Me. 

Still here.

The Echo Room

Every afternoon, 

I rush back to my room—

slam the door, 

as if shutting out 

the noise of pretending. 

The walls know me well, how

I collapse like clockwork,

knees first, 

then hands, 

then everything else. 

Laughter spills out, 

not sweet, not soft— 

but jagged, 

too sharp for joy, 

too loud for sorrow. 

Isn’t this what they wanted?

“Smile more, laugh louder,”

they said, 

as if joy 

were a coat I’d forgotten to wear. 

I wear it now— 

but it fits wrong, 

tight in the chest, 

itching where I’m most raw. 

I smile, 

a crooked thing 

tugged from behind my ears

like fishing line. 

In the mirror, 

I search for a face I trust, but find only performance—a marionette 

pulling its own strings. 

This feeling has manners;

it waits until I’m alone. 

Then it floods— 

not in waves, 

but in silence.

Does it ever get better? 

Not a light. 

Not yet. 

But sometimes, 

I forget to pretend. 

Sometimes, 

I let the silence 

just be. 

Sometimes, 

I breathe without shame. 

And maybe— 

maybe that’s not just a start, but

rather a kind of small victory,

one just for myself.