No Suspicious Circumstances.

I want to be clear:
this is not a cry for help.
This is a cry for quiet.
A cry for the kind of vanishing
that doesn't leave a body,
just an echo.

There’s a difference between being alone
and being awake when the world is asleep.
Between silence at 2 p.m.
and the hush that cradles your soul
at 3:47 a.m.,
when God is the only one still listening.

I’m not trying to die.
I just want to go
where Enoch went
on those mornings when the earth felt too heavy.
Where Elijah rode a chariot
and didn’t have to explain his exit.

I don’t want to be mourned.
I want to be understood.
I want someone to say,
“She didn’t want out of life
she just wanted out of performance.”
The fake smiles, the spiritual small talk,
the church pews filled with yes-men
who can't tell the difference
between loyalty and control.

If I disappear,
let it be like smoke from incense
rising on purpose.
Let it be like a soft step back
into the arms of a God
who doesn’t need me to clap on cue.

Don’t build a shrine,
don’t light a candle.
Just open your eyes to the people
who haven’t said they’re struggling,
but sit in the back row
like ghosts who still tithe.

Talk to the shy ones.
The expressive ones.
The honest ones who don’t know how to pretend.
They’re not rude.
They’re just raw.
And sometimes raw feels like rebellion
in a world full of filters.

If you must write something,
don’t write my eulogy.
Write your apology
to the next person who tries to speak truth
and gets met with silence,
or squints,
or that awful, patronizing smile.

I’m still here.
I’m just… tired.

And if I disappear,
let it be the kind of disappearing
that makes people start noticing
the ones who wanted to stay
but never felt safe enough to say so.