when they ask what I want to be,
I say forgotten.
I do not even capitalize the i—
there is nothing proper about me,
nothing important.
I abandon those who love me,
leave hands outstretched until they close,
fingers curling into fists, into dust, into nothing.
I do not visit those who ask to see me,
let voices go unanswered,
calls fade into static,
love go stale on the windowsill.
I let beautiful connections wither,
watch them collapse like houses I swore I would tend to,
like plants I never watered,
like letters never sent.
I abandon my creator at the first sign of conflict,
between belief and reality,
between the script I was given
and the truth that split it open.
I unthread myself from meaning,
from grace, from forgiveness,
until I am just this—
i, i, i—
a hollow syllable repeating,
a selfish echo,
a name no one speaks.
who would have thought
someone who hates themselves
would carve such space to talk about themselves?
who would have thought
emptiness could take up so much room?
