Where My Name Wasn't Welcome

I entered
and the room shifted.

Not because I was loud
but because
they never expected me
to belong.

My name
was a pause
in every roll call.

A whisper
they tried to skip.

I learned
to shrink
before I could grow.

Learned
to say “it’s fine”
when it burned.

Learned
to nod and smile
while drowning.

They didn’t push me out.
They just
never let me in.

So I became
my own space.
My own echo.
My own anchor.

Now when I walk,
I carry
every version of me
they tried to erase.

Every time
they avoided my name
I carved it
into silence
and made it sing.

I don’t ask
to be welcomed anymore.

I arrive.