Sanctioned Space (or: How to Disappear While Still Being Marked Present)

They call it structure.
I call it stuck.
Same bell, same voice, same script,
same luck.
Sit down. Breathe deep.
Don’t speak unless you’re sweet.
Walk straight. Don’t shake.
Don’t think too loud or break.

It’s a place of learning,
but no one learns you.
They teach what’s right,
but not what’s true.

I move through it like glass,
see-through, pressed.
Stretched too thin
to call it rest.
Not tired —
just wired
for silence.

They call this a “space.”
But it’s measured and marked.
Sanctioned. Sanitised.
Carved out and stark.
No softness,
no slack,
just rules dressed in smiles.
Just grace
with expiry dates,
retracted in piles.

They nod while you speak
and shred what you mean.
Say “we’re listening”
while wiping your words clean.

I play the part.
I do the dance.
Hide the fight
inside the stance.
Answer fast.
Breathe slow.
Count to ten.
Don’t let it show.

They smile like it’s safe here —
but only if you shine.
If your sadness stays symmetrical
and always stays in line.

I get marks, not mercy.
Get praise, not peace.
They call me resilient
but never released.
I’m not healed.
I’m just quiet.
Compliant.
Small.

And I’m scared
because I can’t remember
who I was before the hall
started feeling like a holding cell.

They talk with words like “mindfulness,” “growth.”
They say “reach out,”
but they ghost.

They light candles for awareness
but blow out the truth.
Dress policy. Eye contact.
They want grace without proof.

Say,
“You don’t look like you’re struggling.”
Well, I’m good at disguise.
I learned here
how to hide in my eyes.

My thoughts go loud
where theirs stay still.
So I smile while the silence
starts sharpening its will.
Not for attention —
but control.
Because that is the only time
I get to feel whole.

I am not your narrative.
Not your soft redemption arc.
I’m not your assembly line poster
with trauma in spark marks.

You want me calm
but don’t ask why I shake.
Want me focused
but don’t ask what it takes
to stay here.
To stand here.
To not break
when the air
turns hostile
and I can’t escape.

You call this a community.
But I am alone.
Taught in bright rooms
how to go numb on my own.

And still —
you talk.

Still smile and speak
like your care runs deep.

But can’t you see?

You preach about mental health —
but you play,
a part
in the scars
on my arms.