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 “The Pseudonym’s Room”

There is a room

where names are left at the door,

stacked like coats

on a winter hook.

Inside, the air carries

a faint shimmer of work undone —

pages half‑turned,

ink settling into its own shapes.

A chair waits

for whoever enters next,

unconcerned with signatures

or the weight of a lineage.

Here, the walls listen

without judgement,

holding the soft friction

between what is written

and what wishes to be.

And when you step out again,

you take nothing with you

but the sense

that something in the room

shifted slightly

to make space.

.