Lilith

You sit there.
Coffee in your hand, you want to smoke,
because it’s supposed to help with the restlessness,
but you know that isn’t true.
Quietly you look through your window at the night,
star-clear and cold.

In the corner of the room lies something.
Something you don’t want to look at.
Something you could ignore.
But don’t want to.
But you don’t move.
Because you know:
What lies there belongs to you.
And you want to keep it.
Even if it is wrong.
Even if it poisons you.

Then she knocks.
Not loud.
Not polite.
A single knock.
Lilith does not enter rooms by invitation.
She comes when she is called.
And you have called her.
Not with words.
With your silence.

She stands in the doorway.
Night blue.
Metallic.
Raven feathers in her hair.
You are not afraid of her.
That does not surprise you.
Fear is not what Lilith works with.
Fear would be easier.
Her eyes — those deep brown eyes —
do not look at you.
They look through you.

“You’re holding on to something,” she says.
Not a question.
A statement.
You do not nod.
You do not deny it.
She goes to the corner.
She does not bend down.
She only looks.
“That,” she says,
“keeps you small.”

“I know,” you say.
“And yet,” she says,
“you cling to it.
Like a child to a broken doll.”
You remain silent.

Lilith does not sit.
She stands.
Always.

“You know why I’m here,” she says.
“Because I lie,” you say.
“No.”
Her voice is cold.
“You don’t lie.
You withhold.
That is worse.”

“Why?”
“Because a lie has a form.
It can be shattered.
But silence?
Silence grows.
It turns into shadows.
Into ravens.
Into demons.”

She raises an eyebrow.
“And then,” she says,
“people like me appear.”

You ask:
“What do you want from me?”

Lilith laughs.
It is not a friendly laugh.
“I want nothing from you.
I am not your therapist.
I am not your salvation.”

“Then what?”
“I am the mirror.”

She points to the corner.
To what you are hiding.
“You think I take something from you,”
she says.
“I don’t.”

“What do you do then?”
“I make things no longer invisible.”

I light a cigarette,
because I can’t say anything.
She doesn’t have to touch anything.
She doesn’t have to open anything.
She sees.
That is enough.

“Look,” she says.
“I don’t want to.”
“I know.”
Pause.
“But you will.”

Lilith goes to the door.
She does not turn around.

“And if I’m not ready?”
“Then,” she says,
“I will come back.”

The door closes.
Not loudly.
But finally.

You sit there.
Coffee in your hand.
And in the other corner —
what you are hiding.
It looks at you.

And you know:
Lilith is right.
Silence is dark.
It grows.
The night is star-clear.
.