🖤 The Room Of Freedom 🖤 Poem by James McLain

The Room of Freedom
by James McLain

it's the small things, always,
like a locked door, like silence after 3 a.m.,
no more eyes watching over the sheets I sleep on,
and the laundry, god, the laundry—
clean and mine, folded by my own hands,
no strangers to leave their fingerprints.

freedom smells like soap,
like a shirt worn only by me.
I've washed away the bedbugs,
the stench of old compromises.
it's a lie, the safety they sold me,
but here, alone in this room, I don't need to buy it.

no alarms, no inspections, no knocks on the door—
just the rhythm of my own breath,
the slap of water on my face
as I stare in the mirror and see
a man who still knows how to stand tall.

they talk of dignity, control,
but it's only found when no one is watching.