The Psych Ward

They say this place is a building

But I know better

It’s a cathedral of unspoken things

A sanctuary built from the bones of yesterday’s thought

The halls are rivers

Slow

Silver currents

Carrying the names I’ve forgotten

And the ones I’m still afraid to say

Keys jingle like wind chimes

Hung at the edge of a dream

Reminding me that every door

Is both a lock and a prayer

The chairs are altars

The windows are mirrors

The mirrors are questions

That refuse to answer themselves

Time here is a lantern

Swinging from an unseen hand
Casting shadows shaped like versions of me

I haven’t met yet

And in the center of it all

A quiet room

White as a blank page

Where the walls lean in

As if listening for a confession

I don’t know how to give

I sit there

Hands folded like unopened letters

And feel the air shift

Soft

Deliberate

As though the ward itself

Is exhaling

Only then do I understand

This place isn’t meant to hold me

It’s meant to show me

The architecture of my own mind

The locked doors

The hidden corridors

The small

Stubborn light

That refuses to go out