Before Lockout

The light is muddied as it filters through dirty bars on the windows.

Dust clings to the glass, leaving imprints of initials that aren’t mine. The drawers on the dresser do not close no matter how hard I shove them. The small fridge rattles instead of hums, vibrating against the wall beside the bed.

At night, when the building falls silent, other noises begin.

Scratching sounds drift through the walls. Distant voices echo outside my bedroom door. Sometimes laughter. Sometimes arguing. Sometimes footsteps that slow outside my room before moving on again. Shadows creep beneath the door and stretch thin across the threadbare carpet. I triple-check the locks until my fingers ache from turning them.

I do not feel safe in this self-imposed prison.

Either here or the sofa in a home that no longer wants me.
Either here or at the mercy of fists no one will protect me from.
Either here or the streets.

Iron bars against dirty windows. A door that could be kicked in without much effort. A single bed with sheets that smell faintly of bleach and damp. I lie awake watching the fan above me spin through the dark, its crooked blades clicking softly each time they turn. The air it pushes around the room is warm and stale.

The only light comes from the corridor beneath my door.

Blackness folds inward when the shadows stop outside.

My heart pounds through my chest and somehow I hear the tick-tock of a clock I do not own. I lie awake until dawn, staring at the ceiling while the building groans around me. Pipes shudder somewhere inside the walls. Water runs briefly in another room. A cough echoes down the corridor, then silence again.

I wait for sunrise because sunrise means I can leave.

But I must return before 19:00 or be locked out.
Back to the streets.
The park.
Bloody syringes.
Cigarette butts.
Broken beer bottles glittering beneath the streetlights.
Old men with no front teeth sitting on benches stained with years of neglect.

Every Tuesday night a food truck throws light across the park while crowds gather for free meals of rice, dhal, and soup. Plastic spoons scrape against containers.

I hold back.
I am ashamed.

I have no money. No bus ticket. No home. No family. No friends. Only this hostile town and a life that is not mine.

So I return to my self-imposed prison. I triple-check the lock and wait out another night, watching shadows beneath the door.

Whispering.
Distant, yet close.

The handle turns once.
Twice.
Then stops.

I forget to breathe until I choke, forcing air into my lungs.

The fridge chugs along while I eat the last remaining slice of cheese and wait for sunrise.

© Samira Wyld 2026

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Thank you for reading another post from Shadows And Midnight Screams where we delve into the world of shadows, desire, and untamed expression. My illustrated collection of poetry ‘Twenty Past Midnight’ is now available as a paperback and you can find out more about that here.

And until next time…
Stay seXy, Stay wYld, Be Free™