In the hum of fluorescent lights
where walls breathe in secrets and breathe out anonymity,
we cross thresholds – some seeking refuge,
while others, in the same space,
bully through the ticking minutes.
Our desires crumpled within fissures of time,
jammed between the daily grind and yearning for more.

Here, beneath the skin, bodies say what words can’t hold.
Through the fogged mirror, identity flickers as a half-lit flame.
A ghost, sometimes embraced, sometimes erased,
separated only by the weight of a uniform,
a name badge that never quite fits.

The bathroom stall becomes a sanctuary, a stage, a confession booth.
Where the lines between belonging and faking are blurred,
where a glance across the sink can convey either solidarity or suspicion,
depending on which masks we’ve chosen to wear today.
Who do we become, in the seconds between our duty and disappearance?
Are we only allowed to exist when we perform?

For some, all that these spaces hold is the self they can’t reveal outside.
A fleeting respite from the violence of home,
from the suffocating grind of labour,
where body and soul feel out of sync.
For others, it’s a liminal place,
where routines feel like chains
yet it pays enough to quiet the scream.
Is it safety or survival? Is this living or surviving?

The walls themselves speak
They bear within them the weight of gazes, unspoken hierarchies.
They know the names that one whispers and those that one erases.
They retain the smell of courage, of fear, of silent revolutions
that happened between cleaning shifts and coffee breaks,
passed between hands, washed clean of everything except history.

But are our needs created, or just ticked off a list?
Are we given space to breathe – to be
or simply enough to get by?
The ramp outside the door may invite our bodies in,
but do the hearts inside welcome our souls
or do they leave us hanging at the threshold,
wondering whether we really do belong?

The question lingers
How do we navigate the currents of power?
The undercurrent for agency, the thin line of consent?
When we enter these spaces, are we whole or fragmented?
Human or a silhouette?

Under the light and beneath the tiles, something stirs
a silent truth carried by those who pass through these walls.
It’s the quiet recognition that, though we are seen, we remain invisible,
acknowledged in fragments, yet easily forgotten.
Perhaps, in the end, all we truly long for is a door
one that opens wide enough to let us step into our whole selves,
to exist without fading, no longer trapped between shadow and light.

Cover Image: Photo by Clark Van Der Beken on Unsplash