I Didn't Ask to Wake Up Here

The bell rang like a memory I didn’t agree to keep,

loud as judgment, soft as velvet,

and the room smelled of leftover promises and the inside of a locket too long unopened,

its hinge creaking like a question no one has the patience to finish.

I saw myself in the mirror, not the real me, but the version she kept folded in a drawer,

creased and smelling faintly of ink and gardenia and that silence we called peace,

though it always felt more like truce.

There was a quill on the vanity,

dipped in nothing, poised like it was waiting for me to apologise

to a ghost I never invited,

its feather shedding ideas I didn’t write but still regret.

And outside the door, her perfume curled under like a knowing smirk,

not quite invitation, not quite accusation,

just the scent of someone who still wears your secrets under her tongue.

We had a bond, alright, tucked behind walls,

taped beneath drawers,

stitched inside curtains

no one would bother to look behind

unless they were tired enough

to stop pretending they didn’t feel it too.