Freya Maslin Poet Free verse

Dust

Dust

To them, my problems are dust,
light enough to disappear
with a single breath.
But dust always settles elsewhere.

I learned early
what unwanted felt like.
I learned which floorboards to 
step on,
how to avoid the eggshells,
which scale tipped in their favour.

I learned how to be careful -
not to add weight
to a room already collapsing.
I learned I would never be
the most important thing in it.

There was always something louder than me 
Anger that battled addiction
A world that needed constant translation
Energy that filled every space
A house that had room for everyone — but me.

At some point it became second nature.
I don’t really remember when the autopilot began.
I’m not sure if it ever ended.
I learned how to function without healing.

I learned to 
just
keep 
going.

My body noticed, though.
Pain learned my schedule before I did.
It spoke in aches, in fatigue I couldn’t reason with.
The dust began to settle again,
before they blew it all away.

When I became a teenager, 
I learned that help had an expiration date.
That my body was something to manage, 
rather than live in.

The weight on my shoulders was bruising.
It became too much to live with.
They decided an hour a week would stitch me back together.
They assumed silence was recovery,
And I wilted, just that little bit 
more.

When no one checks in afterward, 
you learn how quiet loss can be.
How subtle pain can breathe.
Something I loved disappeared,
and the world went on unchanged.
I drowned in grief, 
and no one thought to ask.

I became background noise,
a shadow the room overlooked.
I was present, but unseen.
In this house, I am transparent.
see-through.
No glance spared for me.

Another piece was taken from me.
He took what wasn’t his.
A night that fractured time.
A body that stopped feeling neutral.
Clothes I can’t wear.
Places I can’t go.
Silence thick enough
to suffocate.

To them, my pain is like a dandelion:
blow lightly, and it disappears.
but the seeds drift elsewhere,
and the problems still stay.
specks of white, lost in tall grass.

I am still here,
unseen, unheard,
a shadow they pass by.
The house carries on around me.
They pass through me,
like I don’t exist at all.

I learned that my pain is easy to dismiss,
easy to blow away,
but it never leaves.
It drifts into empty rooms,
folds into the corners of conversations I’m not part of,
gathers in the spaces where my voice goes unheard.

Dust that just gets brushed away.
Dust that no one bothers to notice.
Dust that isn’t important.

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