Follow You

I was the afterthought child...

the flicker behind a brighter flame,

the forgotten verse in someone else's song.

I learned to eat silence like bread,

learned to curl small enough

to fit in the shadows

of rooms that never asked me to enter.

There is a lineage in me

not of blood,

but of leaving.

Every time I reached out,

I came back holding air

and the soft echo

of my own too-muchness.

I have worn every shape

a woman can break into...

the spare friend,

the misfit lover,

the sibling whose name

is met with polite sighs

and lukewarm glances.

Only my father,

only my grandparents,

saw the cathedral in my chest

before the ivy took it.

And now they're ash,

and I still kneel

in the chapel of their memory

begging for the warmth

that doesn't visit anymore.

Even love,

when it came,

tasted like apology.

They talked to me, looked at me

like something they'd someday

have to explain

or erase.

I ruin things.

I touch the tender parts

and they bruise.

Not because I want to,

but because I was made of

grief and hunger,

wired to chase affection

like it might outrun me.

All problems became thunder

and I ran from the storm.

All harsh words became lightning

and I sought shelter.

But it was only a light rain

and I felt like a fool.

Sometimes I wonder...

if I buried my name

in a storm-split field

and let the wind forget me,

would anything become softer

in the world I left?

But even then,

I'd leave too loud.