Holding

The doors closed and I held my breath.

Seventh floor—the light ticked down.

Sixth, fifth, fourth. In the polished crown

of the doors I stood, still as death.

Third floor. The pressure started to build.

Second floor. I could have stopped.

But the light kept dropping, dropping,

and something in me refused to be filled

with air until the moment came.

Ground floor. The doors opened wide.

I exhaled like I'd been holding the tide,

like this small thing had a name,

like this useless victory meant something.

I walked out onto the street,

felt stupid and small and complete,

proof I could do this one thing

alone, where no one was watching.

That I could obey myself.

That I could be a locked box, then let myself

open. That was enough.

That was too much. That was exactly enough.