Knocking on the door

I have chosen to begin knocking on the door instead of beating my head against it to a bloody pulp.

I no longer mistake violence for devotion, nor pain for proof that I am worthy.

The door has not changed, it is still made of iron, oak, memory, and silence.

But I have changed; I come now with breath instead of bruises, with questions instead of demands.

There is a sacredness in waiting without bleeding, in hoping without shattering.

I used to believe only broken things could pass through, as if the hinge responded only to agony.

But grace is not a password, and suffering is not a key.

So I knock with the rhythm of a soul still intact, knuckles unbloodied, heart unbowed.

If it opens, let it open because I am whole and not because I made myself a sacrifice.

If it remains shut, let it not become my altar or my prison.

I will not beg a door to love me.

I am not furniture waiting to be used, nor a riddle waiting to be solved.

I am the one who knocks, not the one who dies on the threshold.