House With Thin Walls

I learned early
how to listen for footsteps.
How to read tone.
How to tell the difference
between silence that means nothing
and silence that means I did something wrong.

I am always adjusting.
Volume.
Posture.
Words I haven't even said yet.

I rehearse conversations
that never happen.
I imagine disappointment
before it arrives.
Sometimes I imagine pride too;
just to see what it might feel like.

Nothing I do feels finished.
Everything feels almost.
Almost good.
Almost right.
Almost enough.

Even when you're not here,
I still hear you.
I correct myself mid-thought.
I downplay wins.
I tighten my chest before relaxing it
because ease feels undeserved.

I wonder what you see
when you look at me.
A problem?
A project?
A kid who should be doing more
with everything she's been given?

I keep score against myself
so you don't have to.
I punish the parts of me
that might disappoint you.
I call it motivation.
I call it discipline.
I don't call it what it is.

I wish you knew
how heavy that wondering gets.
How tiring it is
to live like love is conditional
and I'm one wrong step away
from losing it.

I don't want to leave because I hate you.
I want to leave
because I don't know who I am
when I'm not trying so hard.

Graduation feels like a door
I keep my hand on.
Not to run;
just to breathe
without checking the room first.