I woke up to silence, but it wasn’t the same kind as before,
the air felt too clean, and the light bent away from the floor.
My blanket had edges it never had before last night,
and the ceiling stared back like it had something to write.
My pillow was softer, but it smelled like her skin,
and the bed was an inch too far from where it had been.
I reached for the wall and the texture was new–
like they’d painted it while I was sleeping through.
The crack in the mirror had vanished clean,
replaced by a shimmer that didn’t feel keen.
And my shadow moved just a moment too late,
trailing behind me like it had gained weight.
They changed my room while I slept,
shifted the silence, rewired what’s kept.
Now everything looks like it’s always been mine–
but nothing inside me feels aligned.
The vent now clicks when I start to cry,
and the doorknob hums with a lullaby.
The corner chair where I used to hide–
is now turned just enough to watch from the side.
Even the clock ticks different now,
like it knows how long they’ve been allowed.
The drawer has no lock, but won’t pull free–
and I swear it breathes when no one can see.
The nurse said nothing’s changed at all,
but she blinked too long when I asked the wall.
And later that night when the lights went red,
the new room laughed inside my head.
Now I sleep with one eye open wide,
staring at walls that shift with pride.
And when they ask how rest has been–
I smile and say, “This room has teeth again.”