I observe from a calculated distance,
as if I was Gatsby, concealed amongst leaves and shadow,
watching a light he cannot touch,
his hope held still by branches and restraint.
I too remain elevated and unseen,
rooted in silence peering into a life vicariously.
A life that does not yet know it will be marked.
She moves through corridors of sanctioned noise
with a precision fought too early.
Finding resilience as a survival reflex
her laughter is a functional disguise,
carefully calibrated to deflect inquiry.
While language was weaponized and casual,
lands repeatedly with surgical indifference.
No bruises bloom where people are trained to look.
Only damage that knows how not to tell.
Isolation becomes her elective course.
And at lunch, the floor is where you'll find her.
A bathroom stall converted into a confessional
breath subdivided, pulse monitored.
Fluorescent hymns hum without remorse
as screens confess what mouths would mock;
words they multiply, they return
long after their authors cease to talk.
Home offers corners but no release,
she sits where walls protect and where doors close,
where time feels eternal, where seconds are everlasting,
she holds herself like a fragile peace,
careful not to wake her brutal reality.
Pain evolves into articulation.
Skin becomes a negotiable line
a place where her pain seeks translation,
where inner fractures externalize.
This is not a rehearsal for transformation
but reconfiguration, redesign.
A fervent wish to be rendered differently,
perhaps quieter, sharper, less in rotation,
anything other than this self of mine.
I am nearer now, near enough to know
the breath that breaks before it bends,
then buries it where it never ends;
yet I remain incorporeal,
a presence without means to mend;
she does not see me, she cannot.
For she believes this is how it ends.
For she is convinced methodically,
that abandonment is complete.
What she does not yet comprehend
is that I am her future tense,
assembled from endurance and the aftermath;
I am the consequence of her survival,
the proof despair did not destroy her.
I attempt retroactive guardianship,
but time admits no revision.
I am permitted only observation and inference,
only with my education of regret.
All I inherit is the understanding
of what neglect can make one feel.
So I return to the present
bearing lessons learned too late:
that distance masquerades as innocence,
that silence is often mistaken for strength,
that shuddering does not escalate politely,
when it is expected of you to be brave.
Someone right now is already disappearing
into bathrooms, into bedrooms, into themselves.
Perfecting the illusion of being unaffected
becoming smaller to survive, in a way.
And if we persist in watching from trees,
from the hallways, from moral safety,
we will grow into ghosts somehow.
So let this serve as a vow by me,
to intervene before pain requires proof,
to approach before hope becomes precarious,
to offer presence while it can still be received.
So let this be my final pledge,
to step closer while closeness counts,
to break the silence when mutual feeling is clear,
to offer care before it amounts;
becomes a memory, an aftermath of self-doubt.
Because no one should have to survive
just to finally be seen.
And no one should grow up into proof
that care arrived too late to cure.
Jan 18
Jan 18, 2026 at 3:05 PM UTC
I observe from a calculated distance,
as if I was Gatsby, concealed amongst leaves and shadow,
watching a light he cannot touch,
his hope held still by branches and restraint.
I too remain elevated and unseen,
rooted in silence peering into a life vicariously.
A life that does not yet know it will be marked.
She moves through corridors of sanctioned noise
with a precision fought too early.
Finding resilience as a survival reflex
her laughter is a functional disguise,
carefully calibrated to deflect inquiry.
While language was weaponized and casual,
lands repeatedly with surgical indifference.
No bruises bloom where people are trained to look.
Only damage that knows how not to tell.
Isolation becomes her elective course.
And at lunch, the floor is where you'll find her.
A bathroom stall converted into a confessional
breath subdivided, pulse monitored.
Fluorescent hymns hum without remorse
as screens confess what mouths would mock;
words they multiply, they return
long after their authors cease to talk.
Home offers corners but no release,
she sits where walls protect and where doors close,
where time feels eternal, where seconds are everlasting,
she holds herself like a fragile peace,
careful not to wake her brutal reality.
Pain evolves into articulation.
Skin becomes a negotiable line
a place where her pain seeks translation,
where inner fractures externalize.
This is not a rehearsal for transformation
but reconfiguration, redesign.
A fervent wish to be rendered differently,
perhaps quieter, sharper, less in rotation,
anything other than this self of mine.
I am nearer now, near enough to know
the breath that breaks before it bends,
then buries it where it never ends;
yet I remain incorporeal,
a presence without means to mend;
she does not see me, she cannot.
For she believes this is how it ends.
For she is convinced methodically,
that abandonment is complete.
What she does not yet comprehend
is that I am her future tense,
assembled from endurance and the aftermath;
I am the consequence of her survival,
the proof despair did not destroy her.
I attempt retroactive guardianship,
but time admits no revision.
I am permitted only observation and inference,
only with my education of regret.
All I inherit is the understanding
of what neglect can make one feel.
So I return to the present
bearing lessons learned too late:
that distance masquerades as innocence,
that silence is often mistaken for strength,
that shuddering does not escalate politely,
when it is expected of you to be brave.
Someone right now is already disappearing
into bathrooms, into bedrooms, into themselves.
Perfecting the illusion of being unaffected
becoming smaller to survive, in a way.
And if we persist in watching from trees,
from the hallways, from moral safety,
we will grow into ghosts somehow.
So let this serve as a vow by me,
to intervene before pain requires proof,
to approach before hope becomes precarious,
to offer presence while it can still be received.
So let this be my final pledge,
to step closer while closeness counts,
to break the silence when mutual feeling is clear,
to offer care before it amounts;
becomes a memory, an aftermath of self-doubt.
Because no one should have to survive
just to finally be seen.
And no one should grow up into proof
that care arrived too late to cure.
my no place for hate submission this year!
