More than most,
I live like a ghost.

A silhouette they narrate,
An image they curate.
Perceived,
And not received.

I’m Just a fable,
With no seat at the table,
They script my role,
And Forget my soul.

I sit in silence,
cloaked in shame,
out of the frame

As if my quiet
isn’t ache.
As if my presence
is a mistake.

They do not ask.
They do not wait.
They build my story
second-rate.

And still I walk
through crowded halls,
heard by none,
contained by walls.

A tethered breath,
a haunted pace,
living in light
without a place.

This world moves fast —
too sharp, too loud.
No space for ghosts
within the crowd.

I learn their language,
speak it well,
but live in rooms
they cannot spell.

I am not yours
to silence or save.
I am not the ghost —
you are the cave.