Penumbra Weekly

I once lived by habits,

the alarm's sting,

the trains that ruled my morning

the practiced smile that never

reached my eyes.

My body moved through rooms

as if following a script

I never chose. 

Now my shell scrapes the 

floorboards,

and the world has shrunk

to a bedroom that was never meant 

for me. 

This new habitat is a cage 

built from other people’s fear,

a place where even sunlight

feels like a warning. 

I try to repeat my old habits,

reach for the door, 

straighten a tie I no longer wear,

apologize for the trouble of existing. 

But my limbs curl inward

and learn movement  

my mind cannot accept.

Habits once told me who I was. 

Habitats tell me what I am. 

And in this cramped room,

stripped of every routine 

that kept me obedient,

I finally see the truth: 

I was trapped long before the lock

clicked.