There's a room I built with no windows in it.
One chair. One table. One name on the file.
I keep asking who put the chair there—
funny how it's always been mine.
I found a door I don't remember locking.
Behind it, a version of me still knocking.
He asks the same question every single night—
Did you check the evidence, or just the light?
I used to think that curiosity was safe.
A voice that only wanted to explain.
But every question in this house digs down—
and every hallway leads back to my own name.
Let's lay the timeline out again, precise—
the hour, the silence, the second thoughts, the price.
I built a courtroom out of memory,
and made myself the only witness they could find.
I cross-examine every version of the past.
I know the answer before the question's asked.
But knowing every angle of the crime
doesn't tell me who should serve the sentence.
Motive: understood.
Guilt: unresolved.
Maybe the file is wrong. Maybe I misread the hour.
Maybe the mirror lied about the shape I wore.
I keep polishing the glass to see it clear—
it only shows me clearer what I fear.
Fingers point in from every corner of the room.
None of them are strangers. All of them are mine.
I used to think that doubt could set me free—
it only builds the case more carefully.
The blade doesn't fall when they read the crime.
It falls in the silence right before.
That's where I'm standing.
That's where I've always stood.
Can I still live with what I've already done?
Not should I— I'm long past should.
The jury's empty. It was empty from the start.
Every voice that argued was only one voice, torn apart.
I am the courtroom and the crime.
I am the sentence and the time.
I lifted the blade before I asked the question—
now I'm just the one who has to walk with the answer.
I don't hate the hand that carried out the sentence.
I hate that it was steady when it should have shook.
I did what needed doing, calm as rain on empty streets—
and calm is the part that never lets me sleep.
I don't remember when the mercy left the room.
I only remember it was mine to keep.
I was the only one who saw it happen.
No one else was standing in the hall.
So when they ask me for a witness statement,
I'm handing in a mirror. That's all I have.
My eyes don't trust what my own eyes remember.
My skin forgets the weight it used to hold.
I've worn this face so long inside this courtroom
I can't tell testimony from the tale I'm told.
The clock outside forgot to ask my name.
It kept its business through my worst mistake.
Rain doesn't pause to hear a confession.
Footsteps don't wait for the verdict to be read.
I wanted someone else to hold the blade—
but the only hand in reach was always mine.
Can I still live with what I've already done?
The question doesn't end. It just goes quiet.
No one's coming to un-ring the bell.
No one's coming to share the weight I carry.
I am the courtroom and the crime.
I am the sentence and the time.
The gavel fell a long time before the trial—
now I'm just the footsteps, still walking down the aisle.
The rain outside hasn't noticed I stopped talking.
The hallway doesn't end. It just keeps going.
One chair. One table. One name on the file.
Still walking.
.
.
.
Still walking.