Between the Exit and the Echo

I am not done.

Not faded, not folded,

not some antique in the attic

of your quarterly review.

I am still here.

Still sharp.

Still fluent in the language of innovation—

while you scroll past my name

like it’s a footnote

in your future.

I built this place.

Brick by brick,

policy by policy,

fire by fire—

I stayed when others ran.

I rose when others slept.

And now?

You treat me like a burden

beneath your bonus.

I live in the hallway

between retirement and death.

Where the coffee is lukewarm,

and the praise is posthumous.

Where my name still lingers

on the org chart—

but not in your strategy.

You want me gone.

I see it.

In the way your eyes glaze

when I speak truth.

In the way you pray

that today’s the day

I hand in my legacy

with a resignation letter.

But I am not smoke.

I am the spark.

I am the scaffolding

beneath your success.

I am the whisper

of wisdom you ignore

while chasing noise.

I don’t want immortality.

I want visibility.

I want dignity.

I want to finish

the story I started

before you write me out

with a severance

and a smile.

So hear me now—

I am not done.

I am not gone.

I am not yours to erase.