I Built a Room No One Enters

I made a room.

Nobody goes in.

Not because they’re not allowed—

but because they don’t even know it exists.

There aren’t any doors,

just thoughts hammered shut

with the kind of silence

you have to learn how to live through.

It smells like paper

left out in the rain too long—

bloated with memories

that grew moldy

and too hard to touch.

The corners are full

of guilt folded over itself,

creased deep

from being bent again and again,

like a letter I never had the guts to send.

The floor’s a mess

of half-said things.

Every sentence still holding warmth

from a breath I never let go.

Some are written in pen.

Some just smeared with fear.

None addressed to anyone—

or maybe to everyone.

Mostly, though,

just to me.

Sometimes I try to talk.

But my voice comes out broken,

like glass that used to catch sunlight,

now only throwing back

whatever shadow’s closest.

There’s a typewriter inside me

that works without hands.

It writes poems on the walls

while I sleep

or pretend to.

The poems drip like ivy,

climbing across faded wallpaper,

filling in the cracks

like they’re trying to keep me from falling apart.

I’m a hallway

lined with journals no one’s opened.

Their spines stiff with shame,

pages full of sighs

that never got spoken.

You don’t get echoes

in a room where no one talks.

But there are still screams—

too drained to be loud,

too polite to interrupt.

There are tears, too,

but they don’t fall.

They just settle like dust

on picture frames no one looks at—

heavy, gray,

and quiet.

Now and then,

the ceiling whispers,

“You’re still here?”

And I nod,

but only in ink.

I keep writing back—

not with answers,

just proof

that I haven’t disappeared.

Yeah, I’m still here.

Still coming undone.

Still asking the same questions

into the same silence:

Am I the writer?

Or just the wound

that won’t stop telling stories

nobody will ever read?