The room without windows

There’s a room where the silence is heavier than sound,

Where the clock ticks slow but never seems to count.

Light knocks, but the curtains never draw—

It’s always dusk here, stuck between before and after.

Laughter echoes like a foreign tongue,

And joy is a song I once knew but now hum wrong.

Each breath is borrowed, a chore wrapped in glass,

Each step through this fog feels like walking through ash.

Sleep doesn’t rest me—dreams feel like lies,

And waking is just falling, with open eyes.

The mirror forgets me, the world walks by,

While I sit still, learning how to cry without crying.

They say, “Cheer up,” like it’s a switch on the wall,

But I’ve searched every surface—there’s no switch at all.

Just this quiet, this weight, this unspoken ache,

This ache with no name, this hurt I can't fake.

But still—I write, I wait, I breathe,

Because some part of me hopes,

Even if it’s buried beneath,

That one day this room might open its door,

And I’ll remember what my heart was beating for.