Inheritance

I folded my dreams into corners
sharp enough to cut me
just so you’d have room
to unfold yours.

I told myself
love is sacrifice.
That shrinking is a kind of gift.
That silence means strength.
That maybe you’d notice
the ache in my absence.

But you didn’t.
You walked lighter,
because I carried what you wouldn’t.

I stopped asking.
Stopped wanting.
Stopped dreaming.
I peeled my needs down to the bone—
air, sleep,
a hand on my back,
a voice that says I see you.

Even that
was too much.

You didn’t just forget me.
You erased me.
Made me ghost myself.
I vanished in service of your becoming.

And still—
I mattered.
Even if you wouldn’t say it.
Even if I forgot.
Even if it almost killed me
to remember.