When the pain is intense enough, you cease to be someone in the world. You become a body against the world. The bench beneath you becomes strange. The air seems distant. Language cracks under the pressure. Even your name starts to feel like someone else’s.

My home is not tasteful. It’s not neutral. It’s not designed for approval. It’s loud. It’s strange. It’s unrepentantly mine. And it was never meant to be seen by anyone but me.

When power crosses your threshold without consent, it isn't just the door that breaks — it's the illusion that you were ever meant to be safe inside