The Loom Room

The original thread appears beneath the poem it inspired.

My throat is a hallway you never made it down. I’ve been echoing your name against the wallpaper ever since. If I speak it slowly enough, maybe the walls will remember what I meant to say.

Submitted by M: “I never got to say goodbye. She was gone before I could get there. I still feel like I’m mid-sentence.”
You call it a suitcase, but it’s more like a skin. Zipped up to your throat, stitched by survival. Anger isn’t the villain— it’s the knock. It’s the red bloom on the bruise you stopped pressing. Let it leak. Let it say what you couldn’t.

Submitted anonymously: “I don’t know why I’m so angry all the time. It feels like I’m carrying a suitcase I can’t open, but it’s leaking through the seams.”
She visits when the light slants sideways or when a song catches you off-guard. You didn’t lose her. You became her in pieces— in pauses— in the pages you’ve yet to write. She’s not gone. She’s waiting where you left her.

Submitted by a threadbare soul: “I miss a version of myself I never got to be. She feels like someone I knew in a dream I barely remember.”
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My throat is a hallway you never made it down. I’ve been echoing your name against the wallpaper ever since. If I speak it slowly enough, maybe the walls will remember what I meant to say.