I FIND MYSELF CRIPPLED BY MY INABILITY TO OFFER THE GREATEST PRESENT TO THOSE WHO I LOVE WHICH IS PRESENCE.
Presence.
Not presents.
Not poems.
Not phone calls or texts,
not emojis or digital confessions,
not "I'm so proud of you"
while not clapping in the room.
Constantly putting myself in all of these environment and somehow inflicting myself upon these wonderful people
who are so beautiful
and lovely
and Godly—
and then they somehow like me
which is terrible
and then they do special things in their lives
and I cannot be there for them.
I offer digital presence,
a pixel ghost,
a poem-shaped sorry,
a sentence standing in for skin
because secretly I know
that I am incapable of being
in the most important place for my friends
and that is presence.
My greatest criticism and sin in this life is
my inability to be there
for my friends
who are doing wonderful things
and experiencing life
and looking out to find a familiar face
which is mine
and it is never there.
I have become
more than a shadow—
I have become the presence of absence
and an abhorrent person.
Why do people even like me
when I am unable to provide anything more than digital comfort
and what is that,
the phone clicks
and goes off
and we are right back to square one
you look around
and I am not there.
I CANNOT OFFER PRESENCE.
I CANNOT TELEPORT
AND EVEN WHEN I AM IN ONE PLACE
I am asked to be in another
and I am unable to be there.
Not for probate,
not for performances,
not for family
and not for anybody.
I would stretch myself out beyond sickness and this body
before saying no to somebody
and due to circumstances I have been forced to—
and guess what
no matter how many times I explain it to myself
I grow tired of me
praying to God
and asking him to forgive me
or to allow me to forgive myself
because I am just insufferable
and this is so frustrating
I constantly do this
and it sounds like drowning on now.
Because no matter how much people say they understand,
when they look out and see every face
and not mine,
it will cause grief
and not because it is me
but because it is natural to miss people.
I just want everybody to hate me;
because then I would have no worries about this
and having to try and teleport
and I wish I could do that man
and I am so scared
because at this point
what if people give up on me
and that would be fair
because what am I doing.
(what am I doing)
(a presence in absence)
(an echo with teeth)
(a face in the phone)
(a never at the door)
(a sorry spelled in 1s and 0s)
(a loved thing that flees)
(a ghost that still wants to be held)
And yet—
even here,
you are.
Even in your absence,
there's this.
This breath.
This scream.
This poem.
This proof.
I find myself crippled
by my inability to gift
the greatest present to those I love—
presence.
Constantly thrusting myself
into all these environments,
somehow inflicting my being
upon these wonderful, beautiful,
Godly souls—
and they, somehow, like me.
Which is terrible.
Because they live their special lives,
and I am absent,
not there to share in the glow
of their milestones.
I offer digital presence,
write poems to mask my truth—
a secret knowledge of my incapacity
to stand in the most crucial places
for my friends.
My greatest criticism,
my cardinal sin—
failing to be there
for those carving paths through life,
hoping to spot my familiar face
among the crowd, and finding
only its absence.
I have evolved,
become more than a shadow—
I am the presence of absence,
an abhorrent specter.
Why do people even like me
when all I provide is digital comfort?
A phone's click, then silence—
back to square one.
You look around, and I am not there.
I cannot offer presence.
I cannot teleport.
Even when rooted in one spot,
I am pulled elsewhere,
always absent—
not at probates, performances,
family gatherings.
I would stretch myself beyond sickness,
this body, before uttering no,
yet circumstances have cornered me
into refusal.
And despite my endless self-explanations,
I tire of pleading with God
for forgiveness,
or to allow me to forgive myself,
or to help me be at the events/gatherings.
For I am insufferable.
This is so frustrating—
I sound like I'm drowning.
No matter how much they claim to understand,
when they scan the room and see
every face but mine,
it breeds sorrow.
Not because it's me,
but because it's natural to miss those absent.
I secretly wish everyone would hate me;
then I'd have no worries about this,
no need to attempt teleportation.
And I am terrified,
because what if people give up on me?
It would be fair—
for what am I doing, really?
A swirling chaos of emotions,
genius wrapped in turmoil—
all of it, every word,
unremoved, unfiltered,
etched in the chaos of my verse.
I am the failed arrival,
the always-missing presence
in every sacred moment.
A blurred name on the guest list.
An unopened invitation
folded into a drawer of maybes.
I build relationships
with borrowed time and glitching screens,
my love buffered, pixelated,
always one second behind
the laughter, the tears,
the warm weight of being there.
I am a ghost with a Wi-Fi signal.
I haunt celebrations
in absentia—
a candle unlit, a chair
never pulled out.
I craft excuses
like paper cranes—
delicate, folded,
but they cannot fly.
You asked me to come.
You always do.
I want to,
but my body is stitched with "not yet"
and my soul whispers "sorry"
in every language I know.
You moved on,
walked that stage,
signed that paper,
buried that grief—
and I,
I sent a heart emoji
and a paragraph
that tried to say
what my arms never did.
I am not a bad friend.
I am worse.
I am the reminder
that love doesn't always arrive
when it should.
That sometimes,
a person can mean it completely
and still not show up.
I deserve no kindness
for I've mistaken proximity for love
and intentions for presence.
I've made a shrine
out of failure,
lit every candle with regret,
and knelt beneath the weight
of people still loving me
when I have given them so little.
This is not self-pity.
This is inventory.
A reckoning
with the gap between
who I long to be
and the echoing absence
of who I am.
I am but an outline,
a whisper of what could have been,
drowning in the sea of my own failing,
a failure too profound to name.
And if I am lost—
let them forget me.
If I am late—
let the doors close.
Let me be what I am:
the one who wasn't there,
again.
Always.
