The walls pulse with quiet anxiety

The walls pulse with quiet anxiety,

each tick of the clock stretching like shadows,

I sit, hands clenched, my leg bounces—

something in me begs for movement,

a fidgeting prayer in the sterile air.

The fluorescent light hums an erratic tune,

while I watch faces pass, relief glowing bright

—each smile feels like a knife against my chest,

I am yet untouched by fate's cruel hands.

A name called, a deep breath exchanged—

someone exits, the air turns heavy and quiet,

like waiting at the edge of a cliff,

will I fall or fly when they summon me next?

My heart races as it’s my turn,

a flicker of hope tangled in dread,

and I step toward the door, dragging shadows behind,

in this liminal space where futures loom.