I stepped on it this morning

I stepped on it this morning

and the creak came like a warning,

a sound that filled the space

and made me freeze in place.

No one here to hear the noise,

but still I stood, without poise,

my foot pressed down on the board

while the apartment roared.

The gap beneath the wood is where

the sound lives, caught in there,

dust in the crack, a dark line

marking every step of mine.

When I move, I sound like breaking,

like the floorboard's undertaking

is to tell on me, to share

the weight I carry through the air.

The creak's a fact, a testimony,

my body's truth, my ceremony

of existing, of being here,

of being heavy, being clear.

And now each time I step across,

I'll feel the shame, I'll count the cost,

aware of every sound I make,

aware of how much noise I take.