The Door
- Dec 30, 2025
- 1 min read
There is a door.
The door is an invitation.
Yes, that should worry you.
It’s open.
Comfortably.
Like it expects you.
People approach smiling,
as if that helps.
They ask if it’s safe.
I ask if they usually need instructions
before wanting something.
Inside, things loosen.
Stories misbehave.
The body drops its alibi.
You notice yourself
before your excuses do.
You will be seen.
Stripped of rehearsal.
And still allowed to leave,
which somehow makes things worse.
No chains.
No promises.
Just heat standing very close to choice.
You may stay.
You may go.
You may touch the handle,
decide it’s too warm,
and tell everyone later
you had your reasons.
I enjoy the hesitation.
It’s foreplay.
Freedom doesn’t chase.
It waits.
And watches what you do
when no one is pushing.
This is not charity.
Relax.
I want someone who can feel the pull
without calling it danger
or trying to lock it up
for their own safety.
If you walk away, fine.
Doors get lonely.
They don’t beg.
But if you step through,
even for a moment,
remember:
No one tricked you.
No one held you.
You wanted this.
The door stays open.
For as long as it does.
