Doorway
I stand in the threshold.
No foot forward.
No foot back.
The line hums beneath me —
not a barrier, but a question.
I think of crossing -
But I don’t.
I am gravity and hesitation wrapped in skin.
I feel it all.
I feel nothing.
I am so full I could collapse
into a singularity,
a black hole of everything I’ve swallowed,
every word I never said,
every scream I dissolved into silence.
I could pull the world into myself —
or erupt.
Become fire.
Become sun.
Burn until I am unrecognizable,
Burn until the core gives way,
until fusion fails,
until I collapse
and pull the whole damn universe
down with me.
Everything in me screams -
Not just fear,
but memory.
The bones remember staying.
The muscles remember shrinking.
The air itself resists me,
like the atmosphere’s been holding its breath,
waiting for me to stay still.
But I move.
One step.
It’s not brave.
It’s not graceful.
It’s not triumphant.
It’s violence
against everything that ever told me
“No,”
“Quiet,”
“Be less,”
“Be still.”
Everything in me screams
because part of me believes
I am betraying my own safety.
But another part —
the one I barely recognize —
is whispering:
Keep going.
And so I do.
