The walls have the geometry of everything I’ve been avoiding since the start,
The heat is just the pressure of the engineering closing in on the heart,
Strapped to the inventory of every choice that couldn’t be walked back,
The voices aren’t external — they’re the sound of my own internal attack.
I built this room myself and furnished it with what I left undone,
The door is real — I’m just not confident that outside isn’t another one,
The ceiling drops a millimeter for each year I kept the damage quiet,
And the silence is the loudest kind — the kind that builds before a riot.
No escape from the room that you assembled and forgot you made,
No escape from the debt that kept compounding while you played,
No escape from the face in the glass that holds the whole account,
No escape — and the exit is the thing I have to surmount.
The mechanics of this trap has been my study for some years,
The material is solidly constructed from the aggregate of fears,
The walls aren’t moving — I’ve been measuring incorrectly in the dark,
And the key I’ve been refusing to acknowledge is the mark.
I’m not trapped — that’s the correction I’ve been circling toward,
I built the door and filed the key in the space I can’t afford,
No escape is not a verdict — it’s a preference I’ve maintained,
And the difference between escape and choosing is what I’ve been trained.