She tells them she doesn’t like things
She wants them to read her silence,
to understand what she needs without her voice breaking.
She is petty in that way-
a quiet rebellion against her vulnerability.

It’s strange how easily she slips
into the shoes of others,
knowing their weight, their wear,
Hers, worn thin, never seem to fit anyone.
Her steps lost in the echo of crowded rooms,
where she stands, unseen, unheard.

She buries herself in work,
chasing purpose through exhaustion,
driven by the hope that someone, anyone,
will see past the walls she built
and reach for her,
before she collapses under her own silence.