for the girl who swore she’d never cry, and now cries like it’s a second job.
for the girl who wanted to disappear, but keeps leaving claw marks on the exit.
There are nights I rehearse
the vanishing act.
Not with flair—no spotlight, no crescendo—
just
a quiet exit
like a sigh that never comes back.
I make lists in my head:
what hurts,
what’s missing,
what I’ve fucked up,
what I’ll never fix.
And all the people
who stopped calling,
who promised and vanished,
like I’m a ghost in my own goddamn life.
I weigh it all like coins
on the eyelids of my future corpse
and wonder if anyone would notice
the stillness.
Would they post something?
Would it even be about me,
or just some sad platitude
they use like a wet wipe
to clean their guilt?
I picture Clutch by the door,
tail wagging slower each hour,
still waiting.
Sassy curled in the blankets,
head tilted,
wondering why her mama doesn’t come home.
And it breaks something inside me.
Because they’d miss me.
And they wouldn’t understand.
And then—
somewhere between
“what’s the point”
and
“just one more day,”
something small
pulls me back.
The smell of my dog’s fur
when I bury my face in it.
The dumb jokes my brain makes
even when I want it to shut up.
The way my name
still tastes like defiance.
The wind through my hair on a walk I didn’t want to take.
The weird-ass diner lights flickering like
they’re clinging too.
The girl I wanted to be,
the the little boy with lonely eyes—
whispering
please don’t leave me here.
And I remember:
I’ve survived things
that should’ve ended me.
I made poetry out of trauma.
Comedy out of scars.
Magic out of mourning.
I made me.
So tonight, I won’t vanish.
Not yet.
I’ll write this poem
instead of a goodbye.
I’ll breathe again
even if it feels like glass.
I’ll stay.
For now.
For Clutch and Sassy.
For the wind and the weird lights.
For my name in someone else’s mouth,
spoken like it matters.
For the girl in the mirror who still isn’t sure she belongs—
but shows up anyway.
I’ll stay.
Not because it gets better.
But because I
am better
than the worst thing my brain tells me.
You don’t get to win,
not tonight.
I’m still here.
Tired.
Crying.
Cracked like old porcelain.
But breathing.
I’ll stay.
