Where They Put Me

The student in the park was struggling—

math homework or heartbreak, I couldn't tell.

But the shape of the struggle

was familiar. The way the pencil

shook in their hand.

I remembered being that age,

being sent to the back row,

the specific geography of shame.

Mr. something. I've tried to forget his name.

He said I wasn't good enough

and the class heard it.

Everyone heard it. The pencils stopped

on their paper. The silence

was a room I had to live in.

That was fifteen years ago.

I'm taller now. I've built a life

in the years since the back row.

But I can still feel the seat

underneath me, still hear

the way no one defended me,

still know exactly what it feels like

when someone decides you're less than.

I didn't tell the student that.

I didn't tell them about the back row

or the shame or the way

it takes years and years

and you're still not sure

if you're really good enough.

I just walked past them

the way I always do,

the way everyone did to me.

And I thought about Mr. something,

about the casual cruelty

of being told you don't belong,

about how you believe it

even when you shouldn't.

Especially when you shouldn't.