The Door to Empathy

By Amna Salman

I live in a body that cannot feel—

A hollow shell with eyes too numb to weep,

Where cries of others fade before they rise,

Where no touch reaches me, no voice calls deep.

I am a spectator—

A ghost in my own skin,

Watching life through frosted glass,

Where the warmth of others cannot slip in.

There is a door.

I know it’s there, hidden in the dark,

Its edges worn by time,

Its lock rusted, sharp.

Behind it, I know—

My soul once bled in colors bright,

My heart a river, swift and full of light.

But that door was shut,

Long ago,

When the walls of anger and screams

Were too much for me to hold.

It was never a choice—

But survival’s cruel hand.

To protect the fragile me,

To sever my heart’s command.

So the door stayed shut,

And my empathy,

Died quietly,

Like smoke fading into the sea.

Now, I roam this hollow frame,

A body that fails to mirror the world.

My arms are empty—

I cannot hold,

I cannot feel,

I cannot give.

There is no pulse in my veins,

Only numbness,

A cold, constant refrain.

Yet,

There is one place where I can break free,

Where the chains dissolve,

Where my body falls away—

In dreams.

In dreams,

I am real.

I can touch,

I can burn with desire,

I can scream without fear.

In the realm where my body is dust,

I am whole.

I am alive.

For moments,

I remember what it was to care.

But as the morning light steals me from sleep,

The door creaks back into place,

Fingers of ice wrapping around my soul,

The lock clicks shut with a cold, final grace.

And I wake—

Tortured by the taste of warmth I can never keep,

Haunted by the empathy I can never reach,

The door closing tighter,

The key lost to time.

I am left with nothing—

But the hollow echo of what I once was,

A body that cannot feel,

A soul locked away.

A door that whispers the life I can never reclaim.

By Amna Salman