Curtains Half Open

I keep the curtains half open,

like a compromise with the morning.

Enough light to prove I’m alive,

not enough to show the dishes.

From the street, my plant looks heroic,

a green actor in the window frame.

Inside, I forget to water myself.

I post a photo of my coffee,

crop out the tremor in my hands.

I type “lol” too easily.

My silence is the real autobiography.

You once said, “let me in,”

and I did, kind of—

the living room of my heart,

not the locked back hallway.

I’m good at warm hellos,

bad at staying visible.

If someone knocks too gently,

I pretend I didn’t hear.

If they knock too loud,

I freeze behind the fabric.

At night, I open it wider

to watch headlights sweep the walls,

brief and forgiving as mercy.

Tomorrow, I might pull it back

another inch,

or leave it right here,

half brave, half hiding,

learning the name of my own light.