The Ghost of Sixteen

The year I turned sixteen, the air went thin.

I built my grief inside, no one could get in.

A kitchen silence, heavy, hard, and strange,

I waited for the world to notice, to arrange

A rescue plan, a call, a simple check.

My own small room, a ship about to wreck.

I pressed my face against the cold, dark glass,

Wishing for a giant hand to lift the mass.

I’d look down at my hands; they were just mine.

“Someone will come,” I whispered, counting lines

On the ceiling, desperate for a sign.

But the phone never rang. The house stayed still.

Just me and the hollow space I couldn't fill.

Now, years later, I still hear the lock click shut.

That little girl is me, right in the gut.

She’s the reason why, when thunder cracks, I flinch,

Because no one came to pull me from that pinch.