Writers 
I didn't invite these echoes in,
but they came anyway, wearing my own key,
settled into rooms I thought were locked,
made themselves at home inside of me.
I thought it was just for a night but somehow it has become part of me,
footsteps on ceilings I never built.
They replay conversations that never ended,
arguments with ghosts,
voices borrowing my throat to speak
words I never chose, in a tone that isn't mine,
until I can't tell anymore where their sound ends
and where I'm supposed to begin.
So I learned to leave the light on low,
not for them, but for the part of me that still listens.
I started answering back with ink instead of fear,
named each voice, and watched them shrink.
Turns out echoes are loud until you speak first.
Turns out the house is still mine and my mind is still fine.
But some nights they knock louder,
like they pay rent here too.
I let them.
I listen.
Not every voice needs eviction,
some just need to be heard then told to sit down.
I am not haunted,
I am crowded.
And I am learning the difference
between a warning and a wound.
This head is not a battlefield anymore.
It's a house with thin walls.
And I am finally the one holding the pen,
not just hearing it.
