The Unseen Whisper

In the corner of the couch where dust would rest, I curled like breath that hadn’t been confessed. The lights were loud; the laughter burned— But no one asked why my stomach churned. The ashtray spoke of stories missed, Mom’s voice sharp, a serpent hissed. She danced with men I did not know, Each drink a name I’d never grow. Cartoons hummed their lullabies, While truth screamed silent in my eyes. I held my breath to hear her love, But only smoke fell from above. The air would change when fights would rise, Then hush again with plastic lies. They’d say, “He’s fine,” and change the scene— As if a child forgets what’s mean. But I remembered The way the floor would shift, The way my name would float and drift. Not said with warmth or light or grace— Just something spoken to fill a space. And still—I smiled, as young ones do, With scraped-up knees and skies of blue. But deep inside, the whisper grew: You are not the life they drew. So I made friends with shadows cast, Asked the hallway light to last. The heater’s hum became my song, The floorboards knew where I belonged. And in that hush between the blinks, I found the soul that never sinks— A flicker, soft, beneath the ache, whispered, “Child, you’re not a mistake.