how easy
it must be
to be
nothing.
to drift
like smoke—
unheld,
unnamed,
unmade,
uncalled.
no voice
to strain,
no weight
to carry,
no name
to answer to,
no history
to betray,
no body
to mourn
in the morning.
the wind
does not cry
when it leaves
the room.
the shadow
does not grieve
its blur.
even dust
learns
to settle.
even echoes
give up
without needing
farewell.
i envy
the pebble—
tossed
into the dark,
resting
without memory,
without meaning,
without fear
of being seen.
forgotten,
yet
whole.
there is
a kind of mercy
in the void—
a hush
where burden
cannot bloom,
a place
where shame
has no shape,
no mirrors
to reflect,
no mouths
to mock,
no eyes
to measure
the quiet
out of me,
no hands
to hold,
then release,
then forget.
just
the still.
just
the silence
that never
has
to end.
i would fold
into that hush,
slip
into the unseen,
unspool
this thread
of self,
let it vanish
between
the floorboards—
like spilled
water,
like breath,
like light
when the door
is closed.
would i
finally
feel
peace?
or would i
only
miss
the ache—
the ache
that meant
i was
here,
that someone
might’ve known
i was
real
enough
to hurt.
but still—
how light
it must feel
to be
nothing
at all.
100th poem!
