Writers 
They said nothing soft could live here,
Where the walls were made of iron,
Where the air tasted like rust,
Where even prayers came out as smoke,
A place that felt like a cage.
But I built a room inside the metal.
Not with hammers, with breathing.
Not with fire, with staying.
In the iron, I made a sanctuary.
In the metal, I found peace.
In its rust, I felt safe.
A small mat on the cold floor,
A cup of water that never spills,
A light that no wind can blow out.
The world outside kept banging,
Let us in! Let us in!
But the iron did not answer,
And I learned not to either.
Here, I am not touched.
Here, I am not asked to be smaller.
Here, my shoulders can finally drop,
Because the iron holds what I cannot.
You call it hard, I call it belonging.
You call it closed, I call it acceptance.
You call it too much, I call it understanding.
But you never had to sleep in a storm.
You never had to make your own skin a house.
The clanging of the iron felt like a heartbeat.
Soft,
Alive,
Belonging,
Still believing.
