Words That Don’t Land

They cut me out mid-sentence,

a cracked mirror reflecting half a truth.

In the bathroom stall, I leaned into silence,

the echo of dismissal sharp and hollow.

The cracked glass showed a face

that wanted to be more than just a shadow

in the background noise.

I pressed my palm against the cold tile wall,

hoping for something solid,

something that might hold my words.

But disbelief sticks

like chipped paint on wet hands,

and I’m left watching

my own voice crumble,

a ghost nobody wants to hold.