She Who Vanished
It slipped —
the moment,
the breath,
the name I used to answer to.
Eyes closed,
but I didn’t sleep.
I floated.
Unseen.
Undone.
Their voices bled
through paper-thin veils,
but no faces
no light
just echoes.
I had left.
Or been left.
What’s the difference,
when the world forgets
to hold you?
You —
you were the hand
that carved silence into me.
The one who taught me
how to disappear.
I tried to speak once.
A thousand times.
But you preferred your noise
to my truth.
Now
you carry the ache
like I did.
Now
your nights stretch thin
and sleepless.
You never could
stomach the visions—
the rooms I never entered,
the shadows I had to swallow.
The things done
in your name.
I bent reality
until it broke
just to fit inside
your version of me.
I only wanted
to be a girl
with laughter in her hands.
But I was a mirror
you couldn’t look into.
So you shattered me
instead.
Now?
You’re nothing but vapor —
a half-formed dream
in the corners of a room
I don’t return to.
And I—
I sing no more.
But still,
you hear me.
Copyright © Sarah Moncada | Year Posted 2011
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