a person curled up tight inside a microwave of their own making.
the hum isn’t deadly.
just relentless, that low insect-static that seeps into bone and thought until everything inside them softens, blisters, mutates.
the glass door becomes a warped mirror for regret, stretching old mistakes into towering shapes and shrinking anything good into background noise.
still, they press their forehead to the glow, convincing themselves this tight heat is comfort, that this is safety, that growth is supposed to feel like simmering in place.
the timer never dings.
nothing announces completion.
they just keep turning on a squeaking plate, dimly lit, trying to remember the sharp sting of cold that once told them they were still alive.
this is what an inauthentic life feels like.
a slow self-roasting inside a box you didn’t realise you built.
mistaking endurance for purpose.
mistaking pain for proof.
thinking that if you stay in the heat long enough, you’ll come out whole and ready to serve.
but we’re not instant meals.
struggle is weather, not a furnace.
you’re allowed to push the door open.
you’re allowed to feel the cold air rush in.
you’re allowed to step out unfinished and let that be enough.