How to Disappear
There are no maps for this. Only the sound of your own breath echoing off sterile walls, and the way your fingers forget how to hold onto anything.
You don’t run. You dissolve.
Like sugar in water, like names in rain, like memory left out in the sun too long.
They dressed you in white, as if purity were the reason but this is not surrender. This is refusal, folded in satin.
Let the air learn your shape and then forget it. Let absence bloom behind you like a silent garden.
And if you must leave something leave only the light you borrowed on your way out.
No one will know the exact moment you were no longer there. Only that the hallway feels emptier and still holding the shape of your leaving.
You were not a storm. You were the tide pulling back without sound and still, something in the room remembers how full it once was.
