Stepped Around
They looked through me like I was air, but I felt every glance they didn’t give. I stayed still enough to be forgotten, but not enough to stop hurting.
I was there but not really
more ghost than soul,
more outline than whole.
Just enough to be stepped aside, silently.
Just still enough for absence
to pull up a chair and make itself at home beside me,
like an old friend
with cruel comments cloaked in familiarity.
The sagging sofa smirked,
soaking up more stares than I did.
The TV got more attention.
Even the dog got a nickname
sweet, silly, sung in three different voices.
I was just there.
A body with no invitation
to speak,
to move,
to matter,
to belong.
They laughed over me.
Through me.
Passed drinks with a clink,
passed stories with a chuckle,
passed judgment
like I couldn’t hear it
sinking into my skin
like rain into dry earth.
My name was used
only in comparison,
only when someone needed to feel taller.
And when I turned my head,
slow, hopeful,
they kept talking
as if I hadn’t moved at all.
I memorized the low, worn floor.
Its fibers held my gaze,
the way carpet feels
when you stare at it long enough
to forget your face.
The weight of stillness,
like a thick blanket
soaked in cold water,
when no one checks
if you want to leave the room
or disappear entirely.
Sometimes they’d mention me
as if I was an old piece of furniture
they meant to throw out
but never did.
The kind that collects dust and guilt.
The kind that lets out a low, tired creak
when leaned on
and reminds them of something
they don’t want to fix.
I learned how to be small
without making a sound
shrinking myself into silence
a closet I locked from the inside.
How to pretend
that not being noticed
was easier than being mocked.
I kept my thoughts in my mouth,
like loose, rusted nails
clinking against my teeth,
tasting of blood.
Never hammering down
what I couldn’t say.
And still, I stayed.
In the corner.
In the cracks between conversation.
In the silence,
that sat like fog in the corners,
no one thought to ask about
the pauses no one noticed
but I lived in.
When I was older,
someone said I was “low maintenance.”
As if that was a compliment.
As if silence was a personality trait
instead of a survival skill.
But I remember every night
I sat in a room full of family
and felt like furniture
that no one cared enough to move
a sagging chair with one missing leg,
still in the room
only because no one bothered to carry it out.
Even when the weight of me was breaking,
aching,
cracking like a voice
that waited too long to cry.
Thanks for staying till the end.
Most people don’t.
I notice it every time someone makes it this far. Through the noise, through the pain, through the part that asks for honesty instead of comfort. I don’t take it for granted.
Your presence keeps this alive.
If this work speaks to you, help me keep it alive. Your support covers the hours, the sound, the ink, the breath it takes to build all of this.
You can buy me a coffee to fuel the next page, read the books that started it all, or grab the merch that carries these stories into the world. Every bit of it keeps the words coming. Raw, honest, and still here.
