Paranoia.

They slip their letters through my door,

Like thieves who’ve crept this way before.

I tear, I toss, I let them lie—

No name of mine, no reason why.

Their shadows stretch along my sill,

With eyes too wide, and far too still.

They linger near, they press, pretend—

But I know how their stories end.

The blinds are drawn when I prepare

My quiet meals, my careful care.

I sip the light in measured sips,

A lock of calm upon my lips.

They call me strange, they call me proud—

A woman soft, but not allowed

To own her keys, her space, her skin—

To live alone, and not let in.

But I’ve seen masks that humans wear,

The smiling mouth, the vacant stare.

I’ve read the tales—they all are true.

The monsters ask to enter, too.

I will not yield, I won’t invite.

My threshold holds its sacred right.

No one gets in—no claw, no grin,

No lie that drips like sweetened sin.

This paranoia keeps me whole,

A silken cage around my soul.

I walk with grace, I speak with fire—

A whisper laced with barbed wire.

So let them knock and gnash and scheme—

This life is mine, this breath, this dream.

They cannot take what’s tucked within—

My peace. My name.

No one gets in.