i've spent so long being gravity,
the one holding the corners of the tent down
while the wind tried to take the whole show.
i have been the stagehand, the shield, and the shadow,
but tomorrow, i am the one who walks out
before the house lights even dim.
it’s not a retreat; it’s a release.
i am peeling my fingers back from the doorframe
because i’ve realized that if i have to shrink
just to fit in the hallway,
then maybe the hallway was never meant for me to walk.
i see the way the air shifts when i enter-
the subtle tightening of shoulders,
the averted gazes,
the way the conversations stop,
the way the laughter rounds its edges
until it is safe and small and polite.
i am tired of being the reason the room holds its breath.
so, tomorrow, i will take my final bow
to an audience of ghosts and good intentions.
i will bow to the version of me that thought
if i just held my breath long enough,
the room would finally find a place for my lungs.
i will bow to the empty chairs
where the people who used to love me sat
before they learned that the truth is a jagged thing to hold.
i’ll leave my keys on the hook,
and remove my name from every roster,
and i'll leave the space i occupied like a heavy coat
that everyone is tired of carrying.
they'll call it "quitting,"
but it feels more like an exhale.
i'm giving you back your perimeter.
i'm giving you back the ease of a Tuesday
where you don’t have to wonder
where to put your eyes when I walk in.
"you're leaving a gap," they'll say,
but they don't see that the gap is where the light gets in.
it's the space where you can finally stretch
without bumping into the jagged parts of our history.
my chest is still tight with the impact-
the old dents from the bullets i caught for her-
but i don't need a stage to carry them anymore.
i can carry them home.
i can carry them into a silence that doesn't
demand I explain why i’m bleeding on the carpet.
i am stepping out of the frame
so the picture can finally look the way you want it to.
no more glitch, no more smoke.
just the cheap, plastic gold you’ve been polishing,
uninterrupted by the girl who saw the cracks.
i’ll keep the memories of the work,
but i am handing you back the scissors now-
it's no longer my job to decide where we end.
you take the blades, and you do the work of the parting.
cut the tie, clear the air, give them to someone you
actually care about,
and enjoy the room i’ve emptied for you.
it was always about her.
and if her world is bigger without me in it,
then this is the last gift I have to give.
the curtain is down,
the lights are out,
and the exit is the only part of the play
i get to write for myself.
Apr 17
Apr 17, 2026 at 10:06 AM UTC
i've spent so long being gravity,
the one holding the corners of the tent down
while the wind tried to take the whole show.
i have been the stagehand, the shield, and the shadow,
but tomorrow, i am the one who walks out
before the house lights even dim.
it’s not a retreat; it’s a release.
i am peeling my fingers back from the doorframe
because i’ve realized that if i have to shrink
just to fit in the hallway,
then maybe the hallway was never meant for me to walk.
i see the way the air shifts when i enter-
the subtle tightening of shoulders,
the averted gazes,
the way the conversations stop,
the way the laughter rounds its edges
until it is safe and small and polite.
i am tired of being the reason the room holds its breath.
so, tomorrow, i will take my final bow
to an audience of ghosts and good intentions.
i will bow to the version of me that thought
if i just held my breath long enough,
the room would finally find a place for my lungs.
i will bow to the empty chairs
where the people who used to love me sat
before they learned that the truth is a jagged thing to hold.
i’ll leave my keys on the hook,
and remove my name from every roster,
and i'll leave the space i occupied like a heavy coat
that everyone is tired of carrying.
they'll call it "quitting,"
but it feels more like an exhale.
i'm giving you back your perimeter.
i'm giving you back the ease of a Tuesday
where you don’t have to wonder
where to put your eyes when I walk in.
"you're leaving a gap," they'll say,
but they don't see that the gap is where the light gets in.
it's the space where you can finally stretch
without bumping into the jagged parts of our history.
my chest is still tight with the impact-
the old dents from the bullets i caught for her-
but i don't need a stage to carry them anymore.
i can carry them home.
i can carry them into a silence that doesn't
demand I explain why i’m bleeding on the carpet.
i am stepping out of the frame
so the picture can finally look the way you want it to.
no more glitch, no more smoke.
just the cheap, plastic gold you’ve been polishing,
uninterrupted by the girl who saw the cracks.
i’ll keep the memories of the work,
but i am handing you back the scissors now-
it's no longer my job to decide where we end.
you take the blades, and you do the work of the parting.
cut the tie, clear the air, give them to someone you
actually care about,
and enjoy the room i’ve emptied for you.
it was always about her.
and if her world is bigger without me in it,
then this is the last gift I have to give.
the curtain is down,
the lights are out,
and the exit is the only part of the play
i get to write for myself.
