i know every face i’ve worn into a room
the easy one, the nodding one, the one that laughs half a second early
i wear them so well nobody asks who’s underneath
and at home i set them on the chair and sit in the dark with nothing to do
the dishes wait, the phone waits, my own name waits
i replay the whole evening like a tape i’m sure i failed
the pause i left too long, the joke i laughed at, the way i said fine
i’m a judge who never lets the defendant sleep
you were friendly and then you were something else
and i was so good at finding the kindest explanation
she’s tired, he didn’t mean it, it was a hard week for them
i get creative when the cost is only me
some of you read my gentleness as a door with no one behind it
some of you counted on me not noticing
and some days i noticed and wrote you a kinder ending anyway
i gave a second chance, a third, a ninth
i called it faith and came home each time a little smaller
i’ve been clumsy with people too
i know what it is to need room to learn
but i need to see if we’re learning
or only walking back into the same house
hoping the door has moved
so i’ll still hold out a chance
because someone once held one out to me
and i’ll stop letting you stand on the part of me that’s trying to grow
you can come in if you’ll ask how i am and wait for the answer
i’ve held this door a long time
and what i wanted was small
for someone to say go ahead, i’ve got it
and mean it
tonight no one’s here to please so i practice on myself
i make the tea the way i like it
i let the evening go unreviewed
i forgive the pause i left too long
i forgive the joke i laughed at
i forgive the way i said fine
and the small one i kept behind every face
who learned to be quiet so the room would stay kind
hears a name said gently in an empty house
and takes one step toward the voice
and finds it’s mine
i turn around
i hold the door
and she takes her time
—lyra moon (i apologized to the automatic door last week and it opened anyway)
october 20, 2026