The Door That Opens Inward

Most doors
open outward.

They let the world in
or let you escape it.

But the door inside me
opens inward.

And that is the dangerous part.

Because when it opens,
I don’t step into another room
I step into myself.

There are no walls there.
Just unfinished thoughts
floating like dust in sunlight.

Versions of me sit quietly
on the floor.

One still believes in forever.
One doesn’t trust it anymore.
One is tired of being strong.
One is afraid to be soft.

They all look at me
when the door creaks.

As if asking,
“Are you ready to meet us?”

I usually close it quickly.

Life is easier
when you don’t sit with
the people you used to be.

But sometimes
the handle turns on its own.

A memory pushes it open.
A smell.
A song.
A random silence in the middle of the day.

And suddenly
I am face to face
with the truth:

I am not one person.

I am every version
I have survived.

The door doesn’t separate rooms.
It separates comfort
from honesty.

And every time I open it,
I lose a little illusion
but gain a little clarity.

Maybe one day
the door will stay open.

And I won’t fear
the echo inside.

Because maybe
the room behind it
was never meant to trap me.

Maybe
it was always meant
to remind me
who I am
without the world watching.