I sit and sit and nothing comes.
A blank slate.
A white page.
A void.
But there is something.
A tightness inside.
Upper torso.
Lower back.
I turn my neck slowly and hear the grind.
Tiny pockets popping like bubble wrap.
Usually, I ignore it.
But in this perceived nothingness,
it becomes something.
A faint agitation.
A discomfort.
The urge to move away.
But what would that achieve?
…
Loneliness lands.
Not belonging.
Not being seen.
The big figures move around with purpose,
while I remain irrelevant.
An unnecessary addition.
Tolerated.
…
“Pull yourself together.”
The body learns.
Hold it in.
Keep quiet.
Stay safe.
This will pass.
…
I am small.
I sit beside the toy cupboard pretending to play,
while life happens somewhere else.
An only child with older siblings, full of movement.
A tag on.
An irritation.
Someone to ignore.
And then they’re gone.
Cinders remains in the corner,
legs paralysed,
because she wasn’t invited.
Cinders eventually got to go to the ball.
I didn’t.
…
Always outside.
Always watching.
A spectator on the perimeter of life.
Loved in her way,
but never inside the hub of things.
…
Now there is an ache.
Because I can see the walls.
I can feel the tightening.
And sleep would be an escape.