Umbrella

I am the shadow outside the circle, the extra seat no one needs. I pull it close anyhow.

So, my hands have learned how to smooth the air before it becomes smoke. I smile so wide and holy that it pains me.

I become their favorite candy and feel pride when they say I am sweet. The night before I violently sculpted myself into shapes that I knew they’d approve of.

I’m an afterthought. I’m the name not heard as the party is planned, starts, goes on, and dies out.

I have no desire to make space, only to be the person that space is made for. Not the umbrella pushing past the wind in the storm, but the one finding comfort beneath it.

I press my face against the window and trace a shape in the condensation with a hand that I wish someone would hold.

I see the others on the outside. I give shelter and the acknowledgment of their existence. I know what silence tastes like and I cannot let them starve like I did.

Photo by Vladislav Nahorny on Unsplash