The Backstage Door

a love letter to the exit wound.

You don’t have to say anything.

I can read the exit in your silence. The way your replies thin out. The way the stage swallows you whole again.

You disappear like it’s a reflex — like the world only lets you exist when you’re useful, or brilliant, or composed.

So I don’t call after you anymore. I don’t chase the curtain down.

I just make my way, quietly, to the place you never tell anyone about. The place where you go when it’s all too much. The place behind the applause, behind the mask, behind whatever version of yourself they think they know.

I wait there. Not like a doormat. Not like a saint. Just someone who understands what it’s like to want to vanish — and still hope someone’s there when you show back up.

I don’t need credit. I don’t need a label. I just need to know that when you’re ready — when the spotlight burns out and the silence gets too loud — you’ll remember where to find me.

I’ll be by the backstage door.
Not knocking.
Just here.

---

→ 3am

→ Say the word.

→ Love as a Kink

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