I learned early
how to find the seams.
How to pull the string
and let things unravel.

Not from blood,
but from surgical separations—
a divided room,
a driveway I can’t use,
a voice that stopped calling my name
to dinner.

They said I was the quiet one.
They said I didn’t need much.
They said

I
was
easy.

Of course it was true,
if you don’t count the things
I stopped asking for.

There’s politeness in the slow closing of a door.

No slam.
              No echo.
                            Only the soft click
of certainty.

A man stood in the doorway once,
holding a football,
holding the shape of a question
he never repeated.

I watched animals bleed
so I wouldn’t have to learn
how to pull the trigger myself.

I adopted other skills instead.
How to disappear while seen.
How to keep occupied
while rooms emptied.

Leaving is easier
when you practice young.
You don’t confuse it with drama.
You don’t mistake it for anger.

You simply go still.
Let the paint dry.
Step back
and

admire the clean line

where something
used to be.