#speechanddebate
i asked you to save me for eighty,
but i’m looking at the calendar today and realizing
it was never actually about you.
i was just counting the weeks it took
to build a fortress out of my own wreckage.
today is the eighty.
and the math doesn't feel like a physical weight anymore—
it feels like an acquittal.
i spent two years watching boys like you
fumble through the easy mechanics of consumption.
i watched you reach for the cookies, the unwrapped things,
the girls who treat your own dignity like a punchline
because you were too lazy to peel something real,
too terrified of a conversation that requires you
to actually stand behind your words.
you chose the convenient layout because you couldn't handle
the heavy, jagged prose of a girl who demands substance.
but the house has divided,
and i’m not looking at your side of the floor anymore.
i spent my first winter in a black-and-white pantsuit,
learning that the room is full of hollow fronts.
i learned that there are no inherently good people,
only beautiful, desperate actions we choose to take.
that i can only bleed so much onto someone else’s legal pad
before my own rounds start running dry.
i spent my first spring retreating into the static,
learning that when the world get too loud, i shut down.
i learned to bury my head in the music,
i learned that i give too many chances,
and that instead of fearing the gavel,
i could become the force behind it.
i spent this winter learning that the fear in my chest
is just an echo of a round i already finished.
i learned that when i care— i care deeply.
but that not everyone deserves a seat in my chamber.
if i have to choose myself first,
and second, and third, and a hundred times over,
it’s just reclaiming the keys to a kingdom i almost gave away.
i spent this spring tracing the outline of my own shadow.
i looked back through the ledger of every season i survived,
and in the process of auditing the wreckage,
i finally stumbled into my own core.
the girl you met in that black-and-white suit
was just playing at being grown.
she stood at a plastic podium, arguing amendments,
believing that passing a mock bill could change the world.
she thought authority came from a title and a clean ballot.
i know now that the chamber can't save anyone.
the mock bills don't fix the broken things outside the glass.
but i can.
i change the world one real, messy action at a time.
i change it in the margins, where the spotlight doesn't reach.
it’s in one honest poem left on a classroom wall.
it’s in one midnight letter sent to a boy who was drowning in his own silence.
it’s in the quiet choices to stay real when everyone else is putting up fronts.
all my little, insignificant motions on the floor—
they add up to something heavy.
it’s funny, isn't it? i used to check the room
to see if i was allowed to breathe— now i just do it.
i fake the confidence until the brass feels warm in my palm.
i am flawed, and i am angry, and i am sad—
but i am the one holding the ballot.
i used to think the way i felt things was a liability.
i spent years trying to harden the ink,
trying to make my chest as clinical as the air in the chamber.
but i was wrong.
my empathy isn't a weakness.
it is the asset that lets me see the people who are actually hurting,
the ones who look up to the podium and just need someone to be strong.
and the people who matter?
they don't leave the argument on read.
they don't show up only when the speaker points are convenient.
they show up with hands ready to carry the weight they promised.
they are the ones who write poetry into the margins of your life,
the ones who look up at you and make you want to be stronger,
the ones who believe in your solvency because their actions prove it,
even when the ink bleeds.
even the ones you didn't think were watching.
let the critics dissect the cross-examination.
i am letting go of the things beyond my control,
reclaiming my jurisdiction,
and embracing the linear regression of my own healing.
so enjoy your crumbs and your second-hand sugar.
i’m looking in the mirror today,
and for the first time,
the girl looking back at me is whole.
she doesn't need you to save her an orange.
she’s already eating it.
May 16
May 16, 2026 at 11:34 AM UTC
he is trying to find a way to reach for me
without getting his hands messy.
he offers me a Cookie;
a store-bought, plastic-wrapped gesture,
shelf-stable and engineered to last
without ever actually being fresh.
he asks me about the places i’ve eaten,
lowballing the conversation
like he’s afraid that if we talk about the hunger,
we’ll both realize he’s brought an empty plate.
for the hundredth time, he asks for my schedule.
it’s a safe rhythm, a ticking clock
that keeps him from having to say anything real.
he’s fumbling, and he knows it—
tripping over the Unsalted ******* of his own words.
it’s the "fine" answer to "how was your day,"
the dry, flavorless thing you eat
when you’re too sick to handle the truth,
or too afraid of the spice of a real choice.
he’s standing in the room like Cotton Candy—
huge, bright, and spinning gold.
from a distance, he looks like a feast,
a sugary promise of something sweet.
but the second i try to take a bite,
the second i lean in for the substance,
he dissolves into pink air and hot breath.
a fifteen-minute duet plot that vanishes on the tongue,
leaving me with nothing but a sticky residue
and the realization that i want substance.
he’s playing it safe because he can’t handle the weight.
he sees the legal pad in my lap
and the gavel waiting in my hand,
and he decides that the "nothing left"
is easier to offer than the "too much."
i gave him the floor.
i asked for the Filibuster, for the messy,
hour-long rambling of a boy who refuses to let the bill die.
i wanted the frantic syllables, the desperate "don't leave,"
the loud, jagged truth that keeps the house on fire.
but he wouldn't take the time i gave him.
he just checked the clock and asked me
what my monday looks like.
but i am a Blueberry Muffin left on the counter,
the sugar-crust waiting for a hand
that actually wants to feel the heat.
but i am an Orange.
i am full of juice and sunlight and a brilliant, messy confession.
i don't need a snack that won't spoil;
i need someone who isn't afraid to get their fingers sticky.
so keep your store-bought cookies.
stay on the shelf where it’s safe.
i’m done trying to find a meal
in a man who is made of nothing but sugar-crust
Apr 29
Apr 29, 2026 at 9:02 PM UTC
i am staring at the fruit bowl
where the oranges are sitting like small,
unlit lanterns.
i know they are supposed to be gold.
i know, theoretically, that if i broke the skin,
the air would turn into a grove
and the juice would run down my wrists
like a messy, brilliant confession.
but today, they are just weights.
they are just spheres of a color
i can see but cannot translate.
it’s like i’ve lost the frequency
for anything that isn't grey.
i am so tired that my heart
has gone into power-saver mode.
it’s a safety protocol i didn't ask for—
a rigid, internal six-minute limit
that expired hours ago,
leaving me in the digital silence
of a round that won't end
and a rebuttal i’m too heavy to write.
i keep reaching for the "too much,"
the frantic, quiet beauty of the disaster,
but the toggle is jammed.
i am a blueberry muffin
left on the counter after the cafe closes,
wondering if the sugar-crust matters
if there’s no one left to feel the warmth.
it’s a terrifying kind of quiet.
no gavel crack, no timer’s beep,
just the static of a mind
that’s archived the syllables
but forgotten the meaning of the words.
i’m sitting in the back of the room
with a legal pad full of blank pages,
waiting for the "out of time"
to finally mean i can sleep.
i want to want to peel the orange.
i want to be the person
who trips over their own grace
and finds it funny.
but the juice is locked behind the rind,
and i’ve run out of ink,
and my hands are too tired
to hold anything that’s still hot.
i'm just waiting for the light
to come back so i can
find the floor again.
Apr 21
Apr 21, 2026 at 7:38 PM UTC
i am peeling back the lies one inch of tape at a time.
you call me a monster for the fire,
but you cry when i stop carrying the torch.
down the side of the plastic,
there was a map of who i loved-
a row of initials like small, sticky altars.
but the map is wrong now.
the geography has shifted under the weight
of the "forgiveness" you tried to sell me.
so i peeled you off.
it was easy.
masking tape isn't meant to be permanent;
it’s a temporary fix for things that are prone to breaking.
i’m used to the adhesive failing,
to the way the edges curl when the air gets too thin.
i’ve spent five years pretending a paper-thin bond
could hold the weight of a heavy, iron world,
but eventually, the stickiness just gives up.
and now you’re backstage,
the salt of your grief ruining the makeup,
sobbing between the scenes
as if i’ve stolen your oxygen
instead of just my own attention.
🎊 looks at me like i’ve kicked a puppy,
demanding that i sit down and explain the mess.
but we don't need to "talk"- that choice has been taken away.
you can't exile me to the sidewalk
and then expect me to open the door when you knock.
you don't get to burn the bridge
and then ask why i'm not standing on the other side
waiting to catch your ashes.
they want me to be the public enemy,
the shadow in the wings, the cold, iron shield—
but they still want me to keep their name
close enough to touch.
you want the right to hate me
and the right to be missed by me
at the exact same time.
but a villain doesn’t keep a guest list.
a monster doesn't curate a gallery of friends.
a ghost doesn't save a seat for those who buried it.
an arsonist doesn't save photos from the house you made her burn.
if i am the glitch, then i am clearing the screen.
if i am the alarm, then the room is empty.
if i am "better alone,"
then i don't need to carry your alphabet
into the next act.
dry your eyes.
you’re the star of the show, remember?
you have the crowd, the gold, and the tragedy.
you have EVERYTHING you wanted.
i just have the gray, sticky residue
where your name used to be.
and for the first time,
the plastic feels
clean.
Apr 18
Apr 18, 2026 at 8:52 PM UTC
i've spent so long being gravity,
the one holding the corners of the tent down
while the wind tried to take the whole show.
i have been the stagehand, the shield, and the shadow,
but tomorrow, i am the one who walks out
before the house lights even dim.
it’s not a retreat; it’s a release.
i am peeling my fingers back from the doorframe
because i’ve realized that if i have to shrink
just to fit in the hallway,
then maybe the hallway was never meant for me to walk.
i see the way the air shifts when i enter-
the subtle tightening of shoulders,
the averted gazes,
the way the conversations stop,
the way the laughter rounds its edges
until it is safe and small and polite.
i am tired of being the reason the room holds its breath.
so, tomorrow, i will take my final bow
to an audience of ghosts and good intentions.
i will bow to the version of me that thought
if i just held my breath long enough,
the room would finally find a place for my lungs.
i will bow to the empty chairs
where the people who used to love me sat
before they learned that the truth is a jagged thing to hold.
i’ll leave my keys on the hook,
and remove my name from every roster,
and i'll leave the space i occupied like a heavy coat
that everyone is tired of carrying.
they'll call it "quitting,"
but it feels more like an exhale.
i'm giving you back your perimeter.
i'm giving you back the ease of a Tuesday
where you don’t have to wonder
where to put your eyes when I walk in.
"you're leaving a gap," they'll say,
but they don't see that the gap is where the light gets in.
it's the space where you can finally stretch
without bumping into the jagged parts of our history.
my chest is still tight with the impact-
the old dents from the bullets i caught for her-
but i don't need a stage to carry them anymore.
i can carry them home.
i can carry them into a silence that doesn't
demand I explain why i’m bleeding on the carpet.
i am stepping out of the frame
so the picture can finally look the way you want it to.
no more glitch, no more smoke.
just the cheap, plastic gold you’ve been polishing,
uninterrupted by the girl who saw the cracks.
i’ll keep the memories of the work,
but i am handing you back the scissors now-
it's no longer my job to decide where we end.
you take the blades, and you do the work of the parting.
cut the tie, clear the air, give them to someone you
actually care about,
and enjoy the room i’ve emptied for you.
it was always about her.
and if her world is bigger without me in it,
then this is the last gift I have to give.
the curtain is down,
the lights are out,
and the exit is the only part of the play
i get to write for myself.
Apr 17
Apr 17, 2026 at 10:06 AM UTC
i suppose it is my fault because i’m okay alone.
better, even.
i have always been better suited for my own company
than for the constant back-and-forth of ghosts
who only stay as long as the season is convenient.
i've always been better suited for my own company,
and after five years, i should have known
that the cost of saving you would be losing you.
i’ve been watching the door since i made the call,
knowing that for people like you,
the person who holds the mirror is the first one you break.
and then there’s the rest of them,
dropping "i care about you" into the silence
like a pity prize for the girl who lost her best friend.
it’s a hollow sound, a copper lie,
because i can see where your feet are pointed.
(you care about me, sure.
but you care about her more.
understandable.
she needs it.
but what about the one
who pulled her out of the dark.)
why should i feel anything at all?
why should i cry for a seat at a table?
why should i try to make her "forgive me"?
i don’t feel anything.
i don’t see the point in caring about people
who don’t care how i’m doing.
if everyone wants to make me public enemy #1,
then i won’t sit here and beg for a seat from someone
who cut me off for the crime of keeping her safe.
i am the villain because i refused to be a mourner.
i am the monster because i chose her pulse over her secret.
i spent five years building a bridge
just so you could use it to walk away.
and now the world is whispering,
"someone check on her,"
while i am standing here with the heavy, iron-rich
knowledge of what i’ve done,
covered in red,
wearing the bloom of the impact like a target.
let the curtain fall.
i’m not going to sit here and beg for "forgiveness"
for refusing to be a mourner.
i am okay alone.
better, even.
because at least in my own company,
the truth doesn't get you ghosted.
....
someone check on her.
please.
she needs it.
Apr 17
Apr 17, 2026 at 10:06 AM UTC
🎊 says the word forgive
like it’s a bandage she’s offering to buy me,
like i am the one with the ****** knuckles,
like i am the one who started the fire
instead of the one who stood in the door until my skin blistered.
"she’ll forgive you," they say,
and the word tastes like copper and ash.
Forgive me for what?
for making sure there was a tomorrow for her to be angry in?
for refusing to let her become a memory
just so i could keep being her favorite person?
i am public enemy #1 because i dared to be a witness.
i am the glitch in their perfect, golden saturday.
they want a party where no one mentions the smoke,
where everyone can pretend the "gold" isn't painted over rust.
and because i’m the one who pointed at the cracks,
i’m the one left standing on the sidewalk.
i have become the myth, the shadow in the corner,
the monster parents tell their children about
to make them stay quiet, stay loyal, stay hidden.
"don't be like her," they whisper,
"the one who broke the promise."
"the one who stays alone."
i am the cautionary tale of what happens when you care
more about a pulse than a reputation.
she’s casting me as the villain to keep her audience,
using my silence to build her stage.
she gets to be the survivor and the victim,
while i have to be the monster just to keep her safe.
i don’t have the energy to beg for a seat.
i don’t have the breath to explain that I am the villain
only because i refused to be a mourner.
does that make me a terrible person to you?
well, if being "right" means being lonely,
then let the silence be my proof.
i don't need friends- i have my own company.
they can keep their "forgiveness."
they can keep the snacks and the inside jokes
and the ease of a night where no one has to be brave.
i’ll sit here with the weight of the phone call i made,
with the heavy, iron-rich knowledge
that the only reason they have a guest of honor
is because i was willing to be the ghost.
let them lock the door.
let them leave me out of the photos.
let them toast to a friendship i traded
to keep her heart beating.
i am still painted in the proof that i stepped in,
wearing the bloom of the impact,
because it was always about her.
(it was never about me.)
Apr 16
Apr 16, 2026 at 11:01 PM UTC
i told a lie so she could keep her truths.
i told you it was only me—
that i was the one who saw the smoke,
the only one who reached for the alarm.
i let your anger settle on my shoulders
like a heavy winter coat,
because i’d rather you be mad at me
than feel the world is closing in from every side.
you’re screaming about betrayal,
throwing the rinds of our trust at my feet,
aiming for the softest parts of me
because you think i broke the world.
he told me i was brave,
but then he looked at the dent in my spirit
and reminded me that even if i'm saving the juice,
we still have to break the skin to get there.
"you can't take a bullet
without feeling it hit your chest,"
he whispered.
and i feel it.
it’s a dull ache right behind my ribs,
the sting of citrus oil in a fresh cut.
i am standing here with my hands out,
covered in the evidence of what i’ve done,
trying to convince you the red on my shirt
is just juice and not a wound.
but the color is too deep for a citrus sting;
it is the heavy, iron-rich price of the shield.
i am painted in the proof that i stepped in,
wearing the bloom of the impact
so you could stay golden and whole.
the rind is thick, and the work is messy.
i am learning that you can’t peel back the darkness
for someone else without getting
underneath your own fingernails.
i am learning that being the shield
means you’re the one who carries the dents
home at the end of the day.
my chest is tight with the impact,
a heavy, unpeeled weight
that i’m not allowed to drop yet.
i’m the one who told.
i’m the one who stayed.
i’m the one who took the hit
so she could keep her eyes on our gold.
i hope one day you realize
that i didn't do it to trap you.
i did it because i’d rather be the person
you're shouting at,
than the person standing at a funeral
holding a bowl of oranges
that no one is left to eat.
so i’ll sit with the bruise.
i’ll let the martyr talk
sting the places where i’m open.
because if the bullet hit me,
it means it missed her.
i’ll keep the scissors.
i’ll keep the blame.
i’ll keep the memory of the way
the air felt when the bullet hit.
because as long as i’m the one
feeling the sting in my chest,
she’s the one who gets to keep
the sweetness of another Tuesday with you.
even if you never share the slices with me again.
Apr 15
Apr 15, 2026 at 9:33 PM UTC
you are holding a results sheet like it’s a mirror,
and hating the girl who looks back.
you’ve turned a list of strangers’ names
into a map of all the places you think you don’t belong,
measuring your worth with a hollow ruler
made of someone else’s ink.
you say, "i should die,"
as if your heartbeat were a clerical error.
as if a three-day harvest in a drafty room
could undo the miracle of the trees
you’ve kept alive through the frost.
you think that because you weren't "the best,"
you are a defect in the grove.
but i am watching you
try to trade your entire sky
for a trophy that doesn't even know your name.
you are so busy wanting to be "enough"
for people who don't know the scent of the citrus
on your skin, or the way your laughter
is the only thing keeping these walls
from leaning in.
the stranger who won
doesn't have your shadow on the sidewalk.
he doesn't know the frantic, quiet beauty
of tripping over your own grace.
he hasn't earned the right
to carry the scissors for you.
it is a strange, sharp grief
to see you try to erase yourself
over a Tuesday that felt too heavy.
your value isn't a score;
it is the salt in the kitchen,
the flour on the apron,
the habit of the seat to my right
that only sounds like you.
keep the scissors.
keep the bitter rind.
keep the mess you haven't finished making.
because i don't know how to live
in a house where the walls finally touch,
and i am not brave enough
to peel an orange
into an empty room.
so sit at the table with me.
peel an orange.
stay in the world.
give me the sour parts.
STAY.
(please...)
Apr 12
Apr 12, 2026 at 8:53 PM UTC
if you died today,
the world would still grow oranges in pairs,
but the second one
would always go to waste.
there would be a sudden,
sharp lack of citrus in the air,
a bright weight missing from
every palm that ever reached for yours.
the gold would stay locked
behind the skin because no one
wants to break open something beautiful
if you aren’t there to share the first slice.
if you died today,
your dad wouldn’t cry.
he would stand in the hallway,
holding the silence like a heavy,
rusted tool he doesn’t know how to use.
and he would hear you.
he would hear you in every song
you used to sing
but never would again,
the high notes
haunting the radio until he has to turn it off.
he would hear you in the sharp,
sudden slam of the front door
when the wind catches it,
and he would hear you in the clatter
of the kitchen.
if you died today,
your mother would taste you.
she would stand in the kitchen,
paralyzed by the flour on her apron,
remembering how you used to
steal frosting and talk about your day
until the sun dipped below the counter.
she would taste the salt of a recipe
you’ll never finish,
the bitterness of a kitchen
that has suddenly grown too large,
a house that is no longer a home
because your laughter was the only thing
keeping the walls from leaning in.
if you died today,
your best friend would simply come apart.
she would break like a fever,
looking at her hands and realizing
they are empty of the scissors
she gave you for safekeeping.
she would remember how
you were always the strong one,
the one who carried her struggles,
while you were secretly bruising
under the weight of your own.
she’d look at an orange
and see a tragedy—
a sphere of gold that no one
is brave enough to break open anymore.
if you died today,
the girl with the heart like an open door
would finally find a room she couldn’t fill.
she, would realize that even her massive spirit
can’t patch the hole where your laughter used to be.
she’d still be there, trying to be the fun in the room,
but her jokes would taste like pith—
dry and white and missing the juice.
and if you died today,
the boy with sticky fingers would still wake up
and swing his feet
onto the cold floor,
reaching for his phone in the dark
out of a habit that could never again be a routine.
he’d swallow the salt in his throat
and pack his lunch pail,
snapping the latches shut with a sound like a period.
he’d move through the world with his head down,
getting the job done with a ghost in his pocket,
holding an orange he no longer has the heart to peel.
no one wants to know a world without you in it.
not the man who hears the songs,
not the woman covered in flour,
not the girl with no scissors,
not the girl with the big heart,
not the boy with the dark screen,
not the teachers with the empty seat,
not even your worst enemy,
who needs your light to know where the shadows are.
no one wants to reach out to hand you an orange,
the juice already sticky on their palms,
only to realize there is no one there
to take the sweetness from them.
no one wants to read the letters you’ve addressed to them
while you’re six feet under the dirt,
ink screaming your voice into a room
where you can’t hear them scream back.
no one wants to remember the girl who cared so much
that she checked on everyone else’s heart
while her own was breaking,
only to find her chair empty at the table.
they don't want the "good grades"
or the "exceptions"-they want the mess.
they want the smudge on your cheek
and the trail of citrus oil on the books.
so give a chance to the world,
and to yourself,
and to the people
who already save a seat for you by habit.
don't make them learn the rhythm of a Tuesday
without the sound of your breathing.
Stay.
because the gold is still
running down your wrists,
and we are all still waiting
for you to take the next bite.
Apr 8
Apr 8, 2026 at 9:57 PM UTC
he wasn’t even a good actor.
the suit didn’t fit right,
and the tie was always a little too tight—
a cheap costume for a man
who couldn't win a round
even with a script he didn't write.
but he knew the optics.
he knew that if he combed his hair
and kept his voice level,
the adults would see a "leader"
instead of the predator
whispering in the back of the bus.
we all knew.
the "reputation" followed him
like a bad smell he tried to drown in cologne.
a trail of girls with crossed arms,
the collective flinch when he walked in,
the way the room went cold
whenever he tried to be "helpful."
it wasn't a disguise that worked on us.
we saw the devil,
not in the details,
but in the blatant, clumsy way
he tried to hunt in broad daylight.
he’d catch you by surprise,
not with a growl, but with a bright, rehearsed smile
that made you feel like you were the one
misreading the room.
he was a terrible debater,
but he was an expert
at finding the girls
who hadn't heard the warning yet.
he’d smile that bright, plastic smile—
convinced he was charming,
convinced he was safe—
while we stood there
counting the seconds
until we could walk away
from the suit, the tie, and the lie.
Apr 3
Apr 3, 2026 at 10:09 PM UTC
i'm thinking about the way
she peels an orange.
and the way she hands me her scissors-
as if she's handing me
her own safety
for safe-keeping.
the words are getting harder to read.
she writes about running and going nowhere,
and i feel like i'm running next to her.
i want to peel the world for her;
dig my nails into the thick,
stubborn skin
of everything that's hurting her
and pull it away.
to hand her the sweetness, and tell her
"here, i saved this for you.
you don't have
to be
thin
or quiet
or okay-
you just have to eat."
she looks at her reflection and
sees someone who doesn't exist.
it's like another ghost following her.
we're going back this year, to the fire that burned her,
and i'm just standing here
with a cup of water;
watching as others ignore the smoke.
i told the counselor.
told her parents.
told mine.
did Everything
i was supposed to.
(it didn't work.)
they look at her and see
good grades and
defied expectations.
they don't see the girl who
hands me her scissors because
she doesn't trust her own hands.
they don't see her "exceptions".
they don't see the way she runs on
stardust and trauma,
trying to outrun a body she thinks
is too much and
a memory that isn't enough.
she says she's "under watch" when
i'm the only one seeing where she
chooses to hurt because her arms are "off-limits."
it's a strange grief-
mourning someone right in front of you,
knowing one day...
she'll cut too deep.
i'll keep the scissors in my bag.
tell her i love her
until my voice breaks.
how do you save someone
who's being told
they're not drowning?
i'll keep the scissors.
keep the words.
keep the orange slices.
(i just don't know how
to keep her here when
everyone else keeps
looking the other way.)
Mar 30
Mar 30, 2026 at 7:42 PM UTC
The bus was a blessing, six hours of snacks and pride,
Four to a room in Des Moines, tucked in side-by-side.
We watched DI, and POI, the clever and the loud,
Small-town debaters lost within a twenty-thousand crowd.
Then came the dark room—one hundred fifty thousand feet,
Where the top ten stood on stage for the whole world to meet.
I was tired of the Interp, the Addams Family, the hum,
So I put my headphones on, waiting for the end to come.
But the worst happened.
Allie stood in red, her microphone clipped tight,
When a man’s voice cut the air and killed the light.
"Knock, knock," he yelled—a joke that turned to lead,
As the camera panned to a bag, all the humor fled.
"Run away!?" she asked in panic, and the stage became a ghost,
As a sea of bodies surged against the exit post.
Chairs shrieked like victims, shoes left on the floor,
A frantic, crushing gravity pulling for the door.
Pushed forward, shoved back, the bangs began to roll,
Reverberating off the walls, vibrating in my soul.
I felt the weight of hundreds, the trample and the fear,
My coach’s hand beneath my arm, keeping me here.
I waited by the exit, white-knuckled, frozen still,
I couldn’t leave my team behind against my frantic will.
But a girl I barely knew took my hand and led the way,
Through the barricades and bathrooms where the hiding students lay.
Outside, the air was light, but the world was heavy-gray,
Watching flashing sirens wash the "blessing" all away.
Later, the news called it a "scare," but the body doesn't lie.
Now, when I sit in rounds, I watch the hallway with my eye.
My coach puts us by the door, a tactical retreat,
In case the silence breaks again and we have to find the street.
And yet—
I stood in my suit, I spoke the words, I played the part.
I qualified. I made the cut. I finished what I’d start.
But when they called my name, the "magic" felt like stone;
I felt absolutely nothing standing there alone.
No spark of joy, no rush of pride, just the ringing in my ears,
The hollow, cold vibration of the previous year's fears.
But I am going back.
I’ll board that bus, I’ll face the room, I’ll stand upon the floor,
Even if I have to do it right beside the exit door.
The memory is tainted, and the shaking hasn't ceased,
But I’m reclaiming territory from the center of the beast.
Mar 25
Mar 25, 2026 at 6:39 AM UTC