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A post shared by annie miteva (@_minimalista) on Mar 4, 2017 at 5:22pm PST

I don’t open the door all the way—just enough to have one foot on either side.

Standing against the door frame,

against the wall.

Half in.

Half out.

I let him in—but my heart doesn’t feel safe.

When will I feel safe?

“He’ll leave too,” she says.

So I keep the door ajar.

Maybe the suns rays will come through.

Maybe this time will be different.

Because he makes me feel wanted.

He makes me feel alive in a way that nothing else can.

“But it’s just an illusion,” she says.

I open the door a little more.

The light hits my skin, but all I really see is my shadow on display.

What does it feel like to really be seen?

It’s too much.

“When is he going to leave?” she asks.

Shut the door.

Is there a key? How do we lock it?

I lay bricks—one on top of the other.

Seal them with anger, pain, and the stings of old wounds.

One brick,

two brick,

three brick—

Wall.

But I remember this feeling—the feeling of being alone.

A closed door.

Hidden.

Safe.

Unseen.

“You do it well,” she says.

And I realize I still hear her voice.

~