battlefield

Two anchors drag me down—
one guilt, the other hate.  
Walls press hard on either side:  
who I was,  
and who I’ll never be.

I can’t rise,  
nor can I fall.  
And then —  
a key grinds in the lock.  
Pounding fists hammer at the other door,  
each strike a bruise behind my eyes.  
I can’t breathe, can’t feel,  
just one thought:  
make it stop.

I try to speak —  
words rust in my throat,  
splintering on the taste of betrayals,  
but neither pain nor rage  
lets me through.

I used to savor paradoxes,  
the way life twists like a knife,  
but this?  
This is a battlefield,  
and I’m done fighting.  
Where’s the lever to pull,  
the edge to step off?  
I’d carve this day out clean,  
leave nothing but a scar.

And then—  
the key shifts again.  
The door doesn’t shut,  
doesn’t swing wide,  
just hangs there, ajar.  
The silence throbs,  
heavy and thick,  
waiting for the crack,  
enough to let me breathe.