Healing

I stand in a white room,
empty except for my beating heart.
I feel the weight of your flowers,
your words, your whispered dreams.
They drape over me,
petal by petal, promise by promise,
until I cannot see myself.

I take your hand—
like a child reaching for a ghost—
but the ghost is you,
or me, or the dark mirror
we both created.

I press my ear to the ground,
listening for red flags, green flags,
the echo of strangers on YouTube and TikTok
whispering:
“No contact,”
“Abandon ship,”
“Beware the sweet poison.”

My boundaries blur,
my voice grows quiet.
I give, and give,
until the shape of me dissolves
into your hungry shadow.

Where do I begin again?
I trace the outline of my body
on cold concrete,
my chalk line a fragile border
I vow not to cross.

I inhale.
Exhale.
Slowly reclaim the space I occupy,
each breath a question:
Am I here?
Am I whole?

In the white room,
I name myself.
No more illusions,
no more borrowed dreams.
I stand, I stay, I see—
and that is the art.