Not an illusionist (part 1 of Studies in Disillusion) [Website contribution]

They called you an illusionist.

You weren’t.

No rabbits, no fire,

just pockets lined with other people’s lights.

I was the good girl —

whole, exact,

counting truth like change.

You liked that,

you spent it.

I thought your silence meant depth.

I thought your gaps were doors.

They were gaps. They were empty.

No crash, no confession.

Just your hand leaving my shoulder

like it didn’t belong there.

Like it had never learned me.

Look at you -

not myth, not storm…

A boy from a worn-down town,

with his small set of tricks,

looping the same three chords

to anyone who’ll call it a song.

I’m done making you tall.

It wasn’t for me to shrink.

It was the story —

too small to carry me.