I Don’t Fill The Room I’m In

I don’t fill the room I’m in, my
presence slips quite thin between
the walls, behind a chair, outside
in the air; the vacuum I exist between
pushes me both ways, to pop the
empty bubble, to see what isn’t there.

Is there a name for the space between
two slabs of concrete block?

That’s the way it’s always been,
I’m a shadow drowned in light,
a second thought lost in the space,
between your eyes and mine; on the tip
of your tongue, a face and name you
don’t recall.

Is there a name for the one who always
walks unnoticed behind her friends?

I’m quite invisible to everyone, unlike
the one who strides in after me, who
emanates some magic dust or wears a halo
infused with cheer, as if to say
“Hey! Hey! I’m here!” No one turns
to see the one without the airs.

Is there a name for the one who always
sits alone?

I stand my ground with loose resolve,
I buckle at the knees, a nervous tic
to let you know I’m braced for your
not seeing me; tho’ I crave your nod, or
a slightly lifted smile, I’m helpless with
suspicion, of your intended guile.

Is there a name for the one who always
looks from the outside in?

8 thoughts on “I Don’t Fill The Room I’m In

  1. This is quite incredible and really touches me as a teacher and mother. Thank you for penning a voice for the voiceless, especially to have us notice, to have a reminder, to have a glimpse of what it’s like to be that one between the cracks, the one whose presence, as a teacher, I especially need to sense. ❤️

    Liked by 1 person

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