The Room I Died In Was Never Mine

The room I died in

was never mine.

A twin mattress on the floor

beside stained walls that watched

too many stories without speaking.

I remember the ceiling fan clicking

like a metronome

counting the seconds I wasted

existing.

No pictures.

No warmth.

Just dust and the weight of air

thicker than silence.

They called it “home.”

I called it exile.

I was born with a scream in my chest

but the world only heard static.

My voice

became a whisper in someone else’s shadow.

They said

“Choose joy.”

but I had nothing to choose from

but broken glass and half-truths

wrapped in neon lies and secondhand apologies.

I searched for kindness

like it was buried treasure,

but only found empty bottles

and locked doors

with “God loves you” signs

nailed to them.

I begged heaven

for a refund.

I asked

if existing was a mistake.

If breathing was a sentence.

If my sadness was proof of sin.

The mirror never answered,

but the razor did.

No,

I didn’t die that night.

But something did.

The part of me that believed

I could ever be whole.

But then—

a stranger said “I see you.”

Not with pity.

Not with fear.

But with human eyes.

They didn’t fix me.

They sat beside me in silence

and that silence

was the loudest love I’d ever heard.

Now

I sit in a different room.

Same scars.

Different view.

There are plants in the window

I haven't killed yet.

There is a journal with more poetry

than suicide notes.

I still ache.

But I breathe without choking.

I exist

without vanishing.

Closing lines:

To whoever reads this—

You are not broken.

You are unfolding.

The dark will lie to you.

But the dawn will not.

Stay.

Please.

Stay long enough

to see the sun

call you by your name.