Freedom Isn't Free

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.