Servitudes

This is a door — barely ajar, leaning against its frame.

One push, and you could step through. Hear the hinges scream, smell the wood rotting with time, feel the stench of a past that refuses to die.

Maybe you’ll hesitate, not wanting to stain your hands with what’s left behind.

Fingerprints, handprints — the proof that others came before.

You’ll see scratches, deep gouges from nails desperate to tear their way through — rage pressed into the wood, rage that eventually surrendered. Fragments missing, ripped away either as trophies or out of spite.

You push, and the door shifts — only to resist, closing back on its own, stubbornly. There are no locks, no keys. Only the weary weight of something that was never meant to fully open.

The air here is thick — poisoned with the scent of old pain.

The atmosphere chokes you. No crack lets in light. Only cold. Only darkness. And yet it pulls you closer. What festers inside? What refuses to be seen?

Writings scar the surface — messages from hands that didn’t leave names.

You’ll find passions, desperate love, hollow dedications. You’ll see unfinished phrases, half-hearted invitations, crude scrawls lost beneath more crude scrawls.

Lower your gaze — near the floor, you’ll find the violence: kicks, shattered wood, the anger of those who tried and failed.

Hatred carved into splinters. Torn photos, faces erased. Whoever came here wanted everything — and left with nothing.

They didn’t realize: the door was always open.

But only to those cruel — or brave — enough to step inside.

Drag your hand across the scars. Let the splinters bite. Higher up, the surface softens.

There are poems still intact — left by those who entered, who endured, who breathed and touched something real.

Here, you’ll find traces of love, flashes of joy.

Not many — but enough to know someone once survived inside.

Strange, isn’t it?

There are no names. Only initials. Marks that hint but never confess. Arrows and circles, pointing nowhere, or maybe straight at you.

Maybe you were never meant to understand. Maybe understanding was the first lie.

I never locked it. Never painted over it. Never replaced it.

The door remains — battered, colorless, forgotten.

Still open. Still waiting.

You’re welcome to enter. But don’t shove. Don’t kick. Don’t pretend you can destroy what’s already been broken beyond repair. Don’t bother trying to close it. No one ever could.

If you want to leave your mark, find a place between the wreckage.

Maybe near the name you hate most. Maybe beside a memory you once loved. Maybe — if there’s any space left — a place of your own.

But don’t expect it to be easy. One push — and you’re inside. You might see nothing.

Or you might carry away something you’ll never be able to put down again.

It’s dark here, murky — to those who need their eyes to see. Can you feel the cold sinking into your bones? The shiver crawling up your spine?

Good. That means you’re still alive — for now.

Inside, I keep things too real to lock away without burying myself with them.

I could. I still could.

But for now, if you dare to know more — just push.