I don’t need a crowd.
I don’t need noise.
Just once, I want someone
to turn
and say my name
like it matters
that I’m here.
It’s a strange hunger,
this—
to be known
without having to explain
why you exist.
And stranger still
to wonder
if silence is easier
for everyone but you.
Instead, I wait—
quietly rehearsing
how to be easier to hold,
how to be clearer,
smaller,
less likely to be missed
if I’m missed at all.