Why can’t you hear me?

and I was saying—

but you never let me finish.

you never wanted to hear the rest.

so the words stay here,

half-formed,

buzzing in my mouth

like bees with no hive.

I said my tummy hurts

when you throw names at us.

I said my chest feels funny

when you smile at everyone else

but never at me.

but you didn’t look up.

you never do.

I keep trying,

but every time

you roll your eyes,

make the sigh sound,

and I shrink smaller.

smaller than my shoes.

smaller than the floor.

until I don’t know if you can even see me

at all.

I wanted to tell you I’m scared,

that I still wake up crying sometimes,

but you call me weak,

you call me dramatic,

so I bite the words down,

and they cut my tongue

every time.

I live in the corners of you.

the places you don’t look.

the spaces you leave dark.

I rattle the doorknobs at night,

I whisper in the mirror,

but you turn away.

I am unfinished.

I am the sentence you keep walking past.

I am the breath caught in your chest

that you never let out.

and I will stay here—

because you left me here.

five years old,

mid-thought,

mid-cry,

still waiting for you to listen,

still waiting for you to come back.