The Word 'Open'

Chair tilts back, the air grows sharp,

a single bulb swings, beating down harsh.

Silver tools align—soldiers without blood,

waiting, polished cold.

His voice, low and flat,

a command that cracks the hush:

"Open."

Jaw loosens, lips part,

a mouth the size of an empty room,

full of stale breath and cold light.

The drill hums low, a steady war,

scraping, scraping, relentless.

I swallow hard, caught between wanting

and not, held open like a secret

too brittle to close.

This moment hangs, suspended

and sharp,

half-breath, half-hope, unfinished.