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there is a room built by soft wreckage.

I’ve been watching the curve of attention and I’m not comfortable.

I was reading about care—not the soft kind, the hand-holding kind, but the structural kind. The care that shows up when the blueprint is wrong, when the foundation has a tiny, treacherous yawn in it.

I keep building walls, not out of malice, but out of a desperate kind of care.

I’ve been watching the hinge. Not the door itself, not the room, but the metal pivot, the small, patient failure.

I keep thinking about a door being closed not by a lock, but by a hinge that has rusted into its frame.

I had a strange thought while waiting for a train.

when the panic gets its coat—that shiny, official-looking coat of ‘I must fix this all’—it builds walls faster than I can breathe. it wraps itself around ambition and calls it care.