The Blank Space

In the group chat, I typed something stupid.

My fingers did it.

My brain watched from the ceiling.

Then I felt it—my body leaving

while my body stayed.

Like I was becoming the space

where my words used to be.

Everyone kept typing. No one noticed

the gap I was making.

The cursor blinked in my text box,

blinking in the place where my response

never happened.

I could feel myself getting lighter,

becoming the negative space,

the thing people talk around,

the silence that isn't quite silence.

Not wanting to die, just wanting

to take up less room,

to be the white space on the page,

the moment between breaths.