i can’t recall when i began keeping count–
birthday, dishes, the hours i owe everyone.
perhaps it’s an eldest daughter thing,
this arithmetic of living,
the way we measure love in exhaustion
and flinch when the days move too fast.
i was twelve when i first felt the floor tilt,
when i understood that eldest daughters
do not grow up—
they evaporate,
slowly,
gracefully,
until all that’s left is the scent of wax
and unfinished prayers.
i thought i’d be somewhere else by now.
doing something that made my chest feel wide,
like when you’re running downhill and laughing.
but the world kept turning,
and i kept staying,
like someone left behind in her own story.
the candle hisses—
a sound so small it almost sounds like breathing.
i stare at it,
wonder if the wax ever resents the wick
for making it disappear just to keep burning.
maybe that’s what this is.
me, disappearing in small ways.
learning to call it love.
Oct 26, 2025
Oct 26, 2025 at 11:23 AM UTC