they hold my name  
       like a coin in their palm,  
  turning it over,  
       pressing the edges,  
            but never spending its worth.  

their words —
gilded cages,
soft-spoken, silver-lined,
but rust blooms underneath.

i set the table,  
       place their names beside crystal and light,  
            but my own chair—  
                  empty,
                         my place setting,  
                                 forgotten.  

i weave threads into bridges,  
        careful, deliberate —  
              but they walk across  
                   without looking down,  
                         without ever knowing  
                                what held them up.  

i give them weight,  
          substance,  
                presence—  
                        but in their hands,  
                               i am air,  
                                      a thing to be moved through,  
                                                not held.

so i swallow my name,
unspool the thread,
clear the table.

    if they do not know my worth,  
                  then i will keep it  
                                  for myself.