The Door Was Never Locked

By Bhoomika S N

She wears foundation thicker than her vows;

the neighbours call them perfect, blessed.

He brings her roses after every storm,

and the vase hides more cracks than glass.

The phone stays silent through her excuses;

she practices laughter in the mirror’s light.

Each echo sounds almost believable,

until the mirror stops joining in.

Tonight the walls hold their breath again -

another “sorry,” another shatter.

She kneels beside her daughter’s bed

and whispers, “This isn’t love. Remember.”

At dawn she gathers only small things -

a photograph, a key, her breath.

She opens the door she thought was sealed

and steps into her own morning.

By Bhoomika S N