There’s a place in my head I don’t go,

where walls lean close, whispers low.

The air feels thick, the shadows creep,

footsteps echo secrets I keep.

It was daylight, a soft kind of quiet,

birds and leaves, a gentle riot.

But something shifted, something changed—

a line crossed, the silence stained.

What happened there, I’ve hidden deep,

locked in shadows, left to sleep.

I thought by holding it tight inside,

I could save someone else, let it slide.

Yet that place lingers, heavy and still,

its door unopened, bending my will.

The floorboards ache beneath the weight

of moments kept and memories gated.

Every day, I pass it by,

that part of me that had to die.

A room in my mind, untouched, unknown—

its secrets safe, but not alone.