The exit was a magician’s trick,
a sudden trapdoor in a steady room.
One moment, a shared language,
the next, a static that refuses to break.
To be ghosted is to be left holding
the end of a rope that no longer exists.
But the silence was only the first act.
Next came the ink, thick and cold,
crossing out the days where you stood.
An "edit" button pressed on a shared history
until you are a ghost in your own memories,
erased from the scenes you lived through.
Then the story shifted from quiet to loud.
A cage was built from twisted words,
painting a mask and calling it your face.
They turned your reach for a reason
into a weapon to be feared,
reframing the survivor as the storm.
They hold the pen for the public eye,
scrawling a fiction on a digital wall.
But the paper they write on is thin—
it cannot hold the weight of the actual sun.
They can control the script,
but they can never own the truth.
The ground is still there beneath the noise.
Your heart is still beating its own steady facts.
Let them keep their paper house;
you are the one who is actually home.