Uncounted
I wake up already tired,
like the day has made its mind up about me
before I’ve spoken a word.
My hands feel borrowed,
useful once, maybe,
but now just taking up space
at the ends of my arms.
I move through rooms unnoticed,
a chair no one sits in,
a clock no one listens to
until it’s too loud or too late.
Every effort feels small,
shrinking even as I offer it,
like coins slipped into a jar
with a hole in the bottom.
I wonder if absence would echo louder
than my presence ever has,
if the world would pause longer
for the things I never did
than for all the things I tried.
There’s a dull ache in being capable
but never chosen,
being willing
but never asked.
So I fold myself inward,
make less noise,
take up less air,
as if disappearing politely
might finally feel like contribution.
And still, beneath the weight of it,
something stubborn remains,
a quiet pulse that says
this hurt is real,
and real things, even broken ones,
were meant to matter.

A voice inside that tells all. Honesty. Some mis-truth. Some real. You are counted amongst those who truly know you.