The Blank

She reached for the water,

her face went red,

the fluorescent light catching

every moment of dread

in her mouth—

the word that wouldn't come.

Her lips moved, then nothing,

then the small hum

of failure.

Everyone looked away.

Not cruel. Just kind

enough to give her the grace

of falling unseen.

And I was suddenly

back inside my young body,

standing exactly like this,

certain I'd memorized the world,

that words were furniture

I'd arranged just right, secure—

then one day they were gone,

and I stood in front of people

very carefully not looking,

very carefully pretending they weren't booking

the moment I became small.

She said it finally,

the word, quiet, broken.

And I understood: shame doesn't leave.

It just moves somewhere darker,

lives where the light can't reach,

but you can still feel it burning,

waiting for your turn

to fail in front of people

who are very carefully looking away.

We're all just standing here,

reaching for water,

reaching for some way

to hurt less.